


Life After Life

by threeplusfire



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Ghosts, Haunting, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, UMY Halloween Event, Urban Magic Yogs, Werewolves, reference to suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 12:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21243866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire
Summary: Popular rock star Alex Smith discovers the afterlife is a lot more bureaucracy than he imagined. Also it sucks. Striking a shady deal to get back to the world of the living, he haunts a couple in their new home. But Smith has second thoughts and this couple is more interesting than he expected.





	Life After Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt of "Beetlejuice AU" for the UMY Halloween event 2019! Truly an absolute gift of a prompt, huge thanks to whomever submitted it!! Not only did I get to play with an alternate UMY canon, I got to work in one of my favorite movies. I had a lot of fun writing this story and I hope you'll like it.

Being dead was not any fun at all.

Alex Smith watched the waiting room clock run so slowly it was moving backwards. The paper ticket in his hand held an impossible number, one far from the 1544 currently displayed over the window across the room. He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket.

He had never imagined that being dead would mean sitting in a grimy waiting room the color of government offices everywhere, a shade of greenish grey that seemed designed to provoke maximum despair. The color shifted depending on where one sat, much like the indirect light from the ceiling that gave everything a ghastly tint. The chairs were flimsy, some with arms and some without. The floor was a dingy, cracking linoleum with faint stains, grime worn into the textured surface. It was sticky in places. A few tables stood between some chairs, with stacks of worn magazines losing pages to join the occasional tumbleweed of trash that blew around the room when doors opened or closed. The number display occasionally shorted out, the bulbs flickering and popping before coming back.

Time passed or didn’t pass. There wasn’t a clock and he’d never gotten the habit of wearing a watch. Smith tried not to make eye contact with the unfortunate souls stuck in the waiting room of the afterlife’s ever present bureaucracy. Some of them looked pretty rough. There were a few old people, grey haired and filmy eyed. The rest were all sorts of age. No children though. Maybe they had a different waiting room for them. He wondered if it was better or worse than here.

He watched the smoke drift up in a cloud to the stained ceiling. He was grateful for whatever small miracle that kept a pack of cigarettes in his pocket from ever running out. He was also glad he was wearing an outfit he liked - his favorite pair of jeans worn soft, the burgundy shirt with the logo of a band he couldn’t remember, his leather jacket, those heavy boots he’d bought in London. His silver rings were still on his fingers, the piercings still in his ears and his nipples. Smith pulled the sunglasses out of his pocket and slipped them, relishing the small respite they provided.

One of the few redeeming qualities of the afterlife was that he could smoke all he wanted. Unlike most government offices, he didn’t see any no smoking signs. No one appeared to care, and no one tried to stop him.

Left to his own thoughts, Smith kept obsessively returning to the last day. The tour was over and he was in that no-man’s land, wasting time while they figured out what to do next. Smith hated resting, hated the idea of going home to sit around and do nothing. So he was in London, staying out all night, going from clubs to private parties. He’d snorted and swallowed all kinds of drugs that week, let strangers take off his clothes, sucked an uncounted number of dicks. He’d just taken an extra bump, something to perk him up in that predawn hour where he wasn’t ready to go home. Just a little more, chased with a drink. It was good coke and it made him feel like flying.

It wasn’t good though, probably cut with something cheap and crappy. His heart seized and stuttered. Smith stumbled, falling forward. The glass coffee table shattered under him. At first everyone thought he was just drunk, playing the fool. But when he didn’t get up, frantically clawing his chest as it felt like his lungs turned to ice, someone started screaming. Smith had wanted to tell those idiots to stop screaming, anything but that. But he couldn’t make words.

Everything went black, the dim lights shrinking away. When Smith opened his eyes again, he was here. The Afterlife. A goddamn mess, as far as he was concerned. No one had ever told him dying was going to sit him in a queue worse than airport security and the department of motor vehicles combined.

There was the faint taste of blood in the back of his throat and he wiped at his nose absently. It always happened when he thought too much about the last day of his life.

Smith glanced at the clock, frozen in place. Along the wall, a group of huddled figures clustered. Their skin was blackened and peeling. They glanced around in suspicion. Smith avoided their gaze, instead studying the woman in tight, metallic dress riddled with bloody slashes. It looked like her exit from life was a lot more exciting and painful than Smith’s. She caught him staring and hissed something, her eyes going dark. Smith looked away.

“Number 1552!” the green haired woman at the counter shouted. Her bouffant hair was a brilliant shade of magenta. Smith didn’t even glance at the paper in his hand. He stretched his legs out and closed his eyes.

Being dead sucked as far as he was concerned. 

* * *

“What do you mean, my case has to go for review?” Smith snarled, his fragile self control splintering as he glared at the middle aged man behind the desk. He wore a blazer over an ancient tshirt, the lettering faded and cracking. His dark hair was buzzed short and there was a shadow of stubble on his jaw. A neat bullet hole stood out on his grey temple. 

“It means exactly that.” Sips stabbed at him with his own cigarette. An ashtray overflowed on his crowded desk, between stacks of file folders and a giant red stapler. The whole office was dingy and surprisingly low tech, with a typewriter instead of a computer and a green shaded banker’s lamp. The name plate on his desk said SIPS and Smith thought that was a weird, dumb name for a guy with a desk job.

“You died far from home, in a place you’d never been before, and very unexpectedly. So there’s multiple jurisdictions to sort out as to where your ghost is going to be assigned. There’s competing claims.”

“Claims?”

“Claims,” he repeated with some grim satisfaction. “First we have to determine which tribunal will adjudicate your case and then we figure out where to send you.”

“Why can’t I just wander around? Why do I have to stay anywhere? Why do I have to be a fucking ghost in the first place?!?”

“Because that’s a privilege you have to earn, sweetheart, not something we just hand out willy nilly to every pretty face that comes through here.”

Smith groaned and rubbed at his face with both hands.

“There’s some questions about whether your death should be treated as a suicide-”

“What??” Smith dropped his hands, surprised. “Are you crazy? I didn’t kill myself. I took some bad coke. I had a heart attack! Or something, I guess.” Smith realized he didn’t exactly know.

“Your actions in the week leading up to your death were considerably self destructive.” Sips shrugged, a sardonic smile on his face. “So the tribunal will address that.”

“Does it even matter?”

“Sure does, buttercup. Suicides come to work here.” His grin was discomforting. “Maybe I’d finally get an assistant to help me with the paperwork.” Sips gestured at the mountain of paper stacked against the wall.

“I didn’t kill myself,” Smith said. His voice was softer, less strident. “I definitely did not want to be dead.”

“Yeah, I know that. If you’d really offed yourself you would have done it four years ago so you’d be in the 27 club with the others.” Sips’ teeth were remarkably even, and white. They stood out against the grey pallor of his skin. “You didn’t really mean it then, either. Too embarrassed to even see a doctor afterwards, eh?”

Smith startled, his hands gripping the arms of the chair as if he was about to push up and bolt from the office. “What - how do you know about that?”

“I read your file, baby,” Sips answered, giving a one shoulder shrug. “It’s all there. I listened to some of your stuff, too. It’s pretty good.”

Smith did not like the idea of a file containing all his private moments. It felt invasive and horrible, to think of anyone privy to the running commentary, his bouts of extreme self doubt and confidence. His best friend and bassist, Kim, always said he was lucky that no one could really tell what he was thinking. Apparently that luck didn’t last.

The embarrassing night when he’d decided he should be another Morrison had been the product of entirely too many drinks and drugs consumed while staying in a dingy Paris hotel. He’d woken up in cold water filled with vomit, his head aching with the worst hangover he’d ever experienced. In the cold light of morning, Smith burned the melodramatic notes he’d scribbled on hotel stationary. Then he cleaned the bathroom up as best he could before checking out of the hotel and taking a taxi to the airport without speaking to his band. He’d spent a month in a Swiss rehab clinic drying out that time.

Sobriety hadn’t lasted. But Smith didn’t think the suicidal darkness had lingered. There was a lot to live for when you were selling out arenas, when your album was heralded as a renaissance of modern rock. He hadn’t really wanted to die. It just sort of felt like the thing to do, to go out at the top. It was expected. Instead he managed to walk that fine line between excess and falling into the void.

“Thanks, I guess.” Smith shifted in the uncomfortable chair. “So this tribunal should know that too, when they look at it. That it wasn’t suicide. It was an accident.”

“Well, in that case they’ll have to figure out if you’re assigned to haunt the place you died, the place you lived, or whatever.” Sips sighed, as if disappointed he wouldn’t get to have Smith around to clean out his office.

“Why am I haunting anything? Shouldn’t I go into the light or whatever you’re supposed to do? Why am I here??”

“Maybe the tribunal will go for that, who can say. But you look like a restless soul, buddy, and I’ve seen plenty of them. You’re probably going to be a ghost for awhile.”

“Is David Bowie around then?” Smith looked over his shoulder at the door as if the star might just come strolling into the room.

“Nah, that guy had other places to be.” Sips shook his head. “But there’s plenty of other rock stars around. I’m sure you can run into some of them. There’s a bar…” He paused and grimaced.

“A bar?” Smith couldn’t help but snort laugh. He was dead, and there was a shitty government office and a bar and god knows what out there. Everything was extremely fucked up, and a bar could only improve things.

“Yeah, a lot of them go there. It’s not a great place. But what are you gonna do.” Sips sighed. He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out something that looked like an ancient smartphone. “Anyways, here’s your guide. Tells you everything you need to know about how to go places, where not to go, that kind of thing. How to be dead, basically.”

The button powered up the tiny device. A pale illustration lit up the screen, and the title scrolling across the top read “The Handbook for the Recently Deceased.”

“This covers pretty much all the important bits, so read up. Ignorance is no defense, blah blah blah.” Sips tossed it to Smith. “Keep it on your, this is how I’ll get in touch to let you know when your tribunal is scheduled. Since you’re a weird case the three visit rule is suspended. But don’t abuse that - I got a full caseload here and no assistant. I can’t be seen playing favorites, letting you waltz in and out.”

“You got phones here but no computers? How does that even make sense?”

Sips shrugged. “I don’t make the budget. You get what you get. Be glad you’re even getting that instead of one of these babies.” He heft a hardbound book with one hand, an old fashioned watercolor on the cover.

“Sure, okay.” Smith tapped the screen. It looked more or less like the phone he’d used for the past year. The handbook was an icon on the screen, along with a contacts button. Other than a minesweeper game the phone was empty. “So I just… hang out? I mean I don’t even know where I am.”

“Doors,” Sips said. “You gotta be careful because they don’t always open on the same place twice. But you go out of this office into that long hallway, there’s a lot of doors. Stay out of anything that looks like sand. The door three doors down from us should take you to a version of New York and that’s where you’ll find the bar.”

“I could use a drink.”

“Just, stay on the dead side of things, okay?” Sips shoved the papers into a file folder.

“What, no haunting the living? Isn’t that part of the whole ghost deal?”

“You go out there, you’re gonna be stuck with wherever you land,” Sips warned. “You can end up in some bad places too, opening the wrong doors. So… just don’t, okay?”

“Right. Thanks.” Smith stood awkwardly, shoving the phone inside his jacket.

“Hey, one more thing.” Sips glanced around warily before getting up from behind his desk. He put on hand on Smith’s shoulder and steered him to the door. “Be careful who you talk to out there. Since your case is pending, you don’t want to get into any trouble that could make the tribunal less lenient when they decide where you’re gonna end up.”

“No bar fights in ghost town,” Smith cracked.

There was a cold light in Sips’ black eyes. He leaned close and spoke quietly.

“Because you’re not assigned, technically you can’t be in the same trouble if you wander the world of the living right now.” Sips looked uncomfortable saying this. “Some people might want to exploit that, get you to do stuff that’s not on the up and up.”

“So I can go back?” Smith stared at Sips. “Can’t I just go back to my body then? And make it like none of this happened?”

“No, sorry, there’s no going back that way. It doesn’t work like that. Also you’ve been dead for a week already.”

“A week?” Smith exclaimed, aghast. “Was I really waiting that long?”

“Look, we’re swamped down here.” Sips waved a hand. “You could haunt people but why bother? Most of them don’t even notice. It’s in the handbook.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, it’s a real bitch.” Sips squeezed his shoulder. “Look, go hang out at the bar. Lemmy’s there a lot, and some other people. It’s not a bad place to pass the time. I mean, there are worse places.”

“I just… wait?”

“Pretty much yeah.”

“I mean, do I have to find a place to stay or how does that work?”

“Well, you don’t really need to eat or sleep or anything anymore.” Sips shrugged. “There’s plenty of places you can go. I’ll call you when you need to come here. Getting back’s easy. It’s in the book, you know.”

“Right.” Smith let his uneasiness show.

“Cheer up, buttercup. You’ll get used to it fast.” Sips squeezed his shoulder again, shuffling him to the door. “One last thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You might run into a guy.”

“Uh huh.”

“He has a name but we don’t use it. Bad news, this guy. Real freak. Used to work here but he was such a loose cannon they cut him loose which is pretty hard to do in this line of work.” Sips grimaced. “My boss, Juno, there’s a story there but I don’t know it. Anyways, if some creepy dude with bad teeth and even worse hair tries to rope you into working as a “bio-exorcist” or anything like that, just say no.”

“Just say no,” Smith laughed. “Right.”

“And then call me and let me know.” Sips looked serious for a moment. “Seriously. He’s trouble. Runs a lot of scams, dodgy deals. I don’t know how he hasn’t gotten drop kicked into a void yet.”

“But you can’t say his name.”

“Like I said, bad news. And names have a lot of power for the dead. You don’t go throwing them around. Lucky for you, your name is pretty generic. Takes the sting out. Harder to use it against you. But you’ll probably just use a nickname like all the rest of us.”

“Sips isn’t your real name?”

Sips laughed. “I get fucking sick of hearing you assholes mangle my real name, of course it’s a nickname.”

“Do I need money?” Smith asked, his mind spinning on what he was supposed to do while he waited around in the afterlife.

Sips snorted. “Don’t worry about it. Now get outta here, I got to see twenty more lost souls today.” He shooed Smith out the door and towards the sign marked with a flickering EXIT sign.

The hallway was quiet, after the noise of the offices. Smith leaned against the wall for a moment, closing his eyes against the cool, bright light. There were no shadows here, no real depth to anything. An endless, slightly curving hallway lined with doors on both sides. Some of them were numbered. Some of them were blank. There didn’t seem to be any reason to it and all of the doors looked the same. The floor was as blank as the walls and ceiling.

Smith pulled open the third door from the right. He paused at the threshold. Beyond it was a grey mist, a fog that seemed to be blowing ever so slightly. He squinted at the shadows that moved within, overcome with a feeling of deep unease. This didn’t look like a bar in the slightest.

“Fucking… that fucking guy.” Smith stepped backward and shut the door. He tried retracing his steps, guessing the third door from the left.

This one opened into a place that seemed more like what he was looking for. A bar, bigger than he expected, and filled with that particular dim light - the golden glow behind rows of bottles, the shifting multicolored lights over the stage. The crowd parted for him as he stepped inside, bodies hurrying to the swaying dance floor. A band played; Smith stopped and stared. No one he recognized but at least it was music. A woman with white blonde hair and sunglasses pounded out a thunderous drum beat, and a skinny guitarist swayed across the stage. Behind them a keyboardist sat enthroned behind an enormous rack of synths. Someone with a teased up mullet of black hair twirled the microphone between their hands. Whoever they were, they were pretty good in a retro sort of way.

Smith shouldered through the crowd, every bit as strange as the one in the waiting room earlier. Maybe stranger, he thought as he glimpsed a figure with curling horns and a tail. Another green woman slipped around him, carrying an old fashioned cigarette tray. Someone in an oversized blue suit winked at him.

The bartender was short, his head misshapen and lumpy like a melted candle. His eyes were too large, entirely black and he just stared patiently at Smith. At least Smith assumed it was a he - the bartender didn’t exactly look human.

“Uh, whiskey.” Smith pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, wondering if they took money here.

The bartender waved his proffered cash off, and climbed a step stool to reach the whiskey shelf. He poured a neat glass with a single cube of ice that seemed to steam for a moment before it plunked into the whiskey.

“Cheers.” Smith took a sip, grateful that at least whiskey existed wherever he was. It tasted fine, a little dull. He’d noticed that all his senses seemed a little off, or maybe that was part of being dead. Even the music sounded just the tiniest bit flat, the bass not quite reverberating. He licked the ice cube. It was cold but not really cold.

For awhile he watched the crowd, enthusiastically dancing away to the 80’s sort of music. The singer reminded him of the guy from the Cars and Smith couldn’t remember if he was still alive or not, or what his name was. He drank his way into a second glass of whiskey wondering if he’d run into anyone he knew. He didn’t know if that would feel good or bad. Smith was old enough and had lived the sort of life that there were plenty of likely candidates. Did ghosts come here in their down time? When they weren’t busy scaring people? How many bars could there be? This place didn’t seem big enough for all the dead.

He wondered what his band was doing. If they were mad or sad or glad. The thoughts made his nose itch and the taste of blood overwhelmed the whiskey. He downed the glass, his hand shaking enough to rattle the ice cube around.

It wasn’t fair, he thought morosely. He was stuck in this dumb, terrible afterlife because someone fucked up the coke and he was paying for it. That wasn’t even his cocaine! Why did he have to be dead? Everyone else was probably enjoying his money. The band could coast on the attention and the record sales, which probably went through the roof when he died. They could write their tickets, do those dumb side projects they were always talking about. Everyone else got to enjoy life, and he was stuck here. All because dying just meant you got stuck in some dumb buereaucracy tens times worse than any other.

“What’s a pretty face like you doing in a dive like this?” The voice drew him out of his morbid thoughts. Beside him a figure bellied up to the bar and waved at the creepy bartender. “Get us a couple whiskeys down here!”

“Not in the mood,” Smith started to say.

“Oh, it’s always time for more whiskey.” The man next to him grinned maniacally, raising a glass. His hair somehow managed to be both lank and teased out to halo his head. It seemed blond but had a greenish tint, like he’d been swimming too much in over chlorinated pools. His skin was gruesomely pale and dark circles hollowed his eyes. A violent bruise colored his throat. Everything, from his skin to his curious black and white striped suit, appeared grubby. The man looked like he’d just crawled out of his own grave.

“Cheers,” Smith said uneasily. He looked back towards the stage, where the band was playing an encore for the shouting crowd.

“I can’t stand this music,” the grubby man grumbled. “All this modern shit. What happened to class? To real music? Ugh!”

Smith raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond.

“Sorry, do you like this shit?”

“I don’t mind it.”

“You must be new here,” the man laughed. “They’ve been playing the same set for way too long.”

Smith tried to ignore him. He didn’t want to think about the kind of hell that would be listening to the same exact set for eternity.

“You look like a man who needs a plan. Maybe a job, reason to get out of bed in the morning.” The grimy man pulled a business card out of his pocket. A handful of lint, some fingernails, a scratched wedding ring all fell out with it.

“Fuck off.” Smith didn’t touch the card the man slid in front of him. It was black, and the silver script proclaimed BEETLEJUICE in all caps. Beneath it the card read “Inter-Realm Relations and Consulting.”

“Waiting around for a hearing is boring as shit. I should know, I’ve had plenty of them.”

Smith eyed him for a second before looking back at the stage.

“I got something that’s fun.”

“Having plenty of fun, thanks.”

“No, I mean real fun. Real world fun. Not this dead guy bullshit.”

The band finished their song to a tepid applause.

“You want the job or not, kid?” Beetlejuice leered at him, his teeth ragged and yellow.

“Don’t call me kid.”

“What am I supposed to call you then?”

“Just Smith.” He eyed the fiend across from him. “You know I can’t call you by your name. I’m not stupid. I already got an earful from that caseworker about not getting involved with people like you.”

“People like me, that’s rude!”

“Whatever.”

“Call me Tom. Always plenty of Toms in the sea, right?” His form shifted slightly, his hair growing thicker and more puffed, his striped suit transforming into a Hawaiian shirt and loose trousers. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Smith’s manager, the Tom who discretely supplied the drugs backstage and arranged press and made sure no one got arrested during the tour.

“Yeah, sure, okay.” Smith took a drag on his cigarette to hide his disquiet. “What’s the job, Tom?”

“Just scare ‘em, scare ‘em nice and good.” He cackled. “Scare the bejesus out of them, you know, so instead of calling on the good lord they come calling to everyone’s favorite exterminator.”

“How are they gonna know to call you?”

“Already working on that.” Beetlejuice clapped his hands, suddenly full of flyers. “Got a great deal with the postal service, quality institution, only part of the government that works right, eh? Am I right or what?”

“And what do I get out of this?”

“Don’t you want to be visiting the world?” Beetlejuice wheedled. “See your old band, see what they’ve been doing without you?”

The thought churned in Smith’s gut and he could taste blood.

“You do this job for me, I get you this all access pass to wander the world of the living.” In his hands was a novelty sized pass, like one of those giant checks when people won the lottery. “You can trust me!”

“The hell I can. Fucking bullshit.” Smith drummed his fingers on the bar. “How do I know that’s legit? I can go back whenever I want, the guy in that shitty dump of an office said. I don’t need that.”

“Listen buddy.” Beetlejuice’s breath was rank, a smell like an open sewer and cheap booze. “You can wander around until they decide your case. But after that, you gotta toe the line. This here, it’s the real deal. I know these are hard to come by and they are hard to come by. Too bad you don’t get to take all that money with you, eh? You could buy anything you want. Now you gotta scrape it together so you’re not spending all your time waiting around for judgement or living next door to a family of plane crash victims all crowded in one room. Terrible, all that moaning and complaining.” He shuddered elaborately.

“So what, I gotta get a job now that I’m dead? I spent my whole life not having a fucking job.”

“Not money exactly, but favors. It’s a strictly under the table economy for the dead.” Beetlejuice cackled abruptly. He slammed down the rest of his drink, wiping a greasy hand across his face. Then he belched noxiously.

“Why are these people interesting, anyway?” Smith tried to lean back, away from Beetlejuice’s breath.

“The big one I don’t care about.” He snapped his fingers. “It’s the little guy. He’s just right.”

“Uh huh. If he was just right, couldn’t you do this yourself?”

“Oh it’s a lot easier with help.”

“Why exactly do you need my help?”

“Well it makes it easier for me because he won’t see what’s coming!”

“I still don’t see why I should get involved. You can steal whatever it is he’s got, I’m sure.”

“Oh no, no no no.” Beetlejuice grinned again. “That takes the fun out of it. Besides, it isn’t the kind of thing you just steal like a coffee cup. You gotta wile it out of ‘em, seduce ‘em, get all up in their business so you can seal the deal, bam!”

“Seriously, why this guy out of the whole wide world?”

“Oh you know, it’s like blood types and all. Sometimes you just need the exact right match. It’s not exactly a science.”

Beetlejuice shifted, taking on a more serious mien. “Once you start haunting him, he’ll be desperate to find a solution and that’s where I come in. Primo solution, right here.” He thumped his chest with one hand.

Smith sighed and lit a cigarette. Beetlejuice watched him with a certain avidity.

“What do you even need this guy for?” Smith asked after a moment. He waved a hand around the bar. “You’ve got powers.”

“The thing about power is that you always want more.” Beetlejuice tapped his nose slyly. “Bit like cocaine, that way. Care for a little taste?” He whipped out a mirror, the glass covered in razor straight lines of powder.

Smith sat very still. He stared at the mirror, wondering if ghost cocaine was anything like regular cocaine. There was a pull, deep in his gut, that whispering voice in his head that said fuck it do it who cares you’re already dead.

“No thanks,” Smith finally said.

Beetlejuice groaned and put the mirror down on the bar. “No one likes a teetotaller in the afterlife, you know.” He plugged one nostril with a dirty finger and huffed up the lines like a vacuum. It made Smith’s stomach churn and his head throb for a moment to watch him.

“Look, if you don’t want coke, what do you want to take the job?” Beetlejuice asked.

“I want to not be dead,” Smith said bitterly. “I want to be waking up in my body, wondering how to get rid of my hangover and when I can get back to playing shows.”

Beetlejuice cackled, and then clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes comically wide.

“Hate to break it to you, hot stuff, but there’s no getting your body back. It’s done, finito, gone, goodbye dolly, hello worms and dirt.” As he spoke, his face shifted into a skull. Worms and beetles ran across his body. Some of them skittered across the bar. The bartender smashed one with a beer glass, his face expressionless.

“Fuck off,” Smith sighed. He felt jaded. The sight didn’t even frighten him. “They already told me that back in that goddamn office. Why the hell does the afterlife have to involve so many shitty government offices? Why am I in hell?”

“Oh this isn’t hell, no by a long shot,” Beetlejuice mumbled. But his face shifted back to a more human one and his eyes glinted. “But there’s another way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your body is gone. Buried or cremated or pickled, whatever your people did to it. But you could get... “ Here Beetlejuice leaned in close, his rank breath wafting over Smith’s face. “Another body.”

“Another-”

Beetlejuice’s hand clapped over Smith’s mouth and he glanced around in comically exaggerated paranoia. “Shhhh not so loud! This is not legal shit we’re talking!”

Smith shuddered at the cold, clammy touch.

“Would you do the job if it meant you could get another body? Go back to the living world in some brand new duds?”

“What, as a baby? No thanks.”

“No! But the guy I want to work over, he’s got a boyfriend. Real tall, just like you. Pretty, in a different way. But it might be a good fit. It’s uncomfortable you know, possessing someone too big or too small, you just feel clumsy and knock shit over all the time and people start to wonder when a little girl starts yapping in a nice deep baritone…”

“Hold up.” Smith interrupting Beetlejuice’s reminisce about possessing some Victorian girl child. “Is this for real?”

“What, like you think no one’s ever been possessed by a ghost before?” Beetlejuice rolled his eyes around and around.

“I help you out with this dude, and I just take the other guy’s body?”

“Move right in,” Beetlejuice cackled. “It’s primo real estate, great condition, only one owner and recently he repaired all the teeth! Full head of hair! Absolute steal of a deal, am I right??”

“So what exactly do you want me to do?” Smith said after a long pause.

“Nothing bad. Scare him a bit. Do the haunty spooky ghost thing. Get him freaked out so he’s wanting some help.”

“And then what?”

“Then he’ll ask for me, and we’ll make a deal.”

“That simple, huh?”

“The best plans always are.” Beetlejuice leaned back on his elbows, looking around the bar. “Trust me, kid.”

It was insane, Smith thought. But he didn’t really have any other options unless he just wanted to sit in a bar full of dead people.

“Fine. Tell me where to go.”

* * *

Ross took off his boots on the porch. There was mud crammed in the treads and Trott would sigh at him if he tracked it inside. He balled up his socks and stuffed them in his pocket, flexing his feet. The afternoon was still warm, though once the sunlight was gone it would cool off fast. The late September light was golden. He sniffed at the air, enjoying the smell of woodsmoke and burgers coming from somewhere nearby. One of their new neighbors was not ready to give up summer.

They’d been in the house a week, and half their life was still in boxes. Tomorrow was Friday and maybe once the weekend arrived, Ross could spend some time helping unpack and put things away. His new job at the city park department kept him quite busy so most of the unpacking had fallen to Trott, who hadn’t quite figured out what he was going to do here. Back in the city, he’d waited tables and worked odd jobs. Ross had assured him time and time again they could figure it out and there wasn’t any rush. Something would come up here.

Ross leaned back on his hands, looking up at the autumnal leaves shifting overhead against the bright blue sky. One of his favorite things about the house was the front porch, with its wide steps. The red brick and blue siding were in good shape and fit into the neighborhood of well kept craftsman bungalows shaded by old trees. He already had ideas about the work he could do on the yard, the things he wanted to plant, which branches to prune. A wild, overgrown rosebush at the base of the steps bloomed a single white rose. He wanted to find some more flowering things, something to attracts butterflies and bees. Ross lost himself in thought, picturing the symmetry of formal garden beds and gravel paths but full of native wildflowers and berry bushes. He was excited about the prospect of apples from the tree in the backyard, about trips to pumpkin patches and apple cider doughnuts and farmers markets full of heirloom vegetables. He’d enjoyed his years living in the city but it felt so good to be back in a smaller town.

“How long have you been home?” Trott stood over him. He was barefoot, and his bleached white hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. The shaved sides were dark, and the numerous piercings in his ears stood out. There was a smudge of dust on his cheek, and his tshirt and jeans were covered in streaks of dust and cobwebs. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, grimacing at the sweat and grime.

“Just a few minutes.” Ross reached up for Trott’s hand. “You look dirtier than me, what have you been doing?”

“I was up in the attic.”

“Why?”

“Just poking around.” Trott twined his long fingers into Ross’ calloused ones. “I was looking for a place to put things away, like the suitcases.” He shifted on his feet, swaying a little and Ross couldn’t help but stare at the way the jeans hung at his hips and the little sliver of skin revealed where his shirt rucked up. 

“Find anything?”

“Actually, I did.” Trott sighed and sat down on the step beside Ross. “Part of the attic is finished out into a room and there’s a ton of stuff up there.”

“That’s weird. Should we call the real estate lady and see if someone wants to pick it up?”

“Maybe,” Trott said. He paused to wave at a couple walking their dog and pushing a stroller down the sidewalk. They waved back. Ross raised a hand. He wasn’t quite used to how nice this small town was. He’d been anxious when Trott first floated the idea of leaving the city. The small town where he grew up was a suspicious, bitter place. The city had been his refuge, where he fled as soon as he was able. It wasn’t hard to find green spaces, though it took some time to get used to the noise and the constant presence of other people. 

“I’ll call her tomorrow, ask her about it. But the guy who owned this place didn’t have any family so I’m not sure there’s anyone to give it to.” Trott looked perturbed, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. 

“Is it just attic crap, or like, weird shit?” Ross asked.

“Eh, some of it is just Christmas lights and sweaters,” he said. “But there’s a lot of books and boxes of god knows what. I didn’t open it all.”

“You didn’t happen to find a box full of gold coins? Or some first edition comic books? Forgotten Picasso maybe?”

“No,” Trott snort laughed. “Believe me, I would have lead the conversation with that.”

“Too bad,” Ross groaned. “Guess I’ll have to keep going to work until you dig up some treasure so I can retire.”

Trott laughed and bumped his shoulder into Ross. Somewhere a dog barked, and the voices of children shouting something gleeful and indistinct came from further up the street. The sun was setting behind the house, and long shadows stretched towards the street. A woman biked past, followed by a teenager on a skateboard. Across the street, an older woman walked slowly to her mailbox. She waved at them, and they waved back. The leaves of the big tree beside the driveway of their little house rustled in the breeze, and a couple drifted down to the grass. 

“I like it here,” Ross said softly.

“I know you do.”

“I met some people at lunch.”

“Oh?” Trott raised an eyebrow.

“You know there’s a whole bunch of us working for the city,” Ross continued. 

“Really?” Trott’s gaze was skeptical.

“It’s not a giant city, but that doesn’t mean we don’t exist.”

Trott made a noise, not quite agreeing. “But is it safe?”

“Yeah.” Ross slung an arm around his shoulder. “It is safe here. Safe as anywhere, really.”

“Come inside,” Trott urged. “I need a shower, you need a shower. We might as well try to conserve water and shower together.”

“A noble plan but last time I think we splashed a whole second shower’s worth on the floor.” Ross leaned in, nuzzling the shaved side of Trott’s head.

“We’ll just have to try to restrain ourselves.” 

“No promises.” Ross nipped at the top of Trott’s ear, where one of the gold rings gleamed.

* * *

In the morning, Trott sat cross legged in the attic, looking through one of the shelves of books. Early morning sunlight stretched across the floor. He’d gotten up with Ross, made coffee and toast and watched his fiance take off for work. Then he’d come back up to try to figure out what to do with this unexpected room.

Clearly no one had been up here in months and months. Probably not since the last owner died, if Trott had to guess. The realtor who sold them the place had only opened the door and gestured up the narrow staircase hidden at the end of the hall to access the attic. The small Craftsman home was in decent shape from the outside with a newish roof and new windows. The interior was fine aside from being shabby and not updated in decades. Before they moved in, Trott had spent too much money on acquiring a new stove and fridge because he wasn’t about to mess with the temperamental 1960’s horror in there. But he had lots of plans, to fix up the wooden floors and shine up the bathroom tiles. 

In the strange finished room three of the four walls were covered in floor to ceiling shelves. They were all wood and looked handmade, each one lovingly sanded smooth and stained a golden brown. Underneath the fur of dust, the shelves looked well maintained. The other wall brick. A full length mirror was propped against it, covered with a sheet. There were stray chalk marks and Trott wondered if the previous owner had been measuring something or planning to hang the mirror. There were small windows that looked out to the front and back of the house, little alcoves just wide enough to put in a chair. Aside from the shelves, there wasn’t any other furniture in the room. The floor was wide and empty, the unfinished boards pale in the gloomy room.

Trott had some thoughts about making this a cozy little library. The room actually looked finished, though he didn’t see any electrical outlets. The wood floor could stand to be polished and stained - it was scuffed in places, marred with splotches of god knows what. He wondered if it cold up here in the winter, how good the insulation was. Maybe the warmth from the fireplace came up through the bricks. He daydreamed about a cozy chair, maybe a little rug and a small table.

An unfinished project, he guessed. The previous owner started out strong with all the shelves but never got around to making it comfortable. It puzzled him that there wasn’t even an overhead light in the space. There was a light in the main portion of the attic but it was too far away to illuminate the room. The rafters were shadowy and dusty. Maybe if he looked through the shelves he might find an outlet hidden away behind some of the clutter.

Most of the books were foreign, languages he couldn’t read or didn’t recognize. Quite a lot of them looked old, the volumes bound in leather. Trott wondered if he should have someone look at them. They might not be a chest of gold, but it might be something. Maybe enough to hire an electrician or to fix up the yard like Ross wanted. The real estate agent hadn’t returned his call but he wasn’t worried. She’d walked through the house with him twice before they bought it. The previous owner was dead, and there was no family, so the house had been a bargain deal.

The house needed work but nothing insurmountable. Only one owner had been there for the past forty years so it was just the little things like the appliances and worn out places in the floor, plumbing that needed some repairs. It had seemed like a miracle find and Trott begged Ross to make an offer before someone else did.

Ross found it funny that Trott was so ready to commit to a mortgage but he wouldn’t get married. 

It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with Ross. He just didn’t want to put the burden of labels like marriage and husband on their relationship. It felt like such a weight. Not like when he’d changed all his piercings, just two weeks after they first met. Or signing a mortgage that meant he would spend the next thirty years of his life owing money to a bank and tying up his life. Especially when he hadn’t even figured out a job here.

There were just so many expectations about the life they’d have if they were married. Trott felt anxious and twitchy at the thought of people asking if they’d become parents, as if marriage magically transformed them into responsible, dull adults preoccupied with preschools and car seats and safe schools and summer camps. Bad enough they’d moved out of the city to this town that felt like a movie set for some vision of ideal Americana that never really existed. Trott preferred the noise and grime of the city, the shared misery of late buses and the delight of 3am meals at hole in the wall spots, the fun of happening on an unexpected street festival or the people watching on the library steps in the center of downtown.

Trott groaned and stretched. Maybe he’d walk down to the little grocery store and scope out the main streets. Maybe there was a cafe or a diner or a restaurant looking for a new waiter. Ross kept reassuring him that this was a friendly place. Maybe it was time to find out for himself.

* * *

Smith opened the door and found himself standing in an attic. He glanced behind him, at the door opening through the bricks. The cold light of that afterlife hallway glowed white. Smith patted his jacket pocket, making sure he still had the phone. The handbook had instructions on how to cross between the realms of the living and the dead. It seemed easy enough, but Smith still felt an unsettled pang to watch the door swing shut. 

In the quiet, Smith looked around. The view out the small window showed a tree lined street, a place that looked very American to his eye. Not anywhere he’d been exactly. More like that television idea of suburban America, little houses with lawns and white painted fences. A car rumbled down the street, confirming the impression. 

The house was quiet. The people living here were clearly not home and Smith relished the chance to poke around in their belongings. There was no ghost haunting this place, according to Beetlejuice. So no competition for attention, no conflict, no need to worry about someone telling his case worker he was haunting a place without authorization.

He wandered down the narrow attic stairs to the floor below. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom on this level. The closest bedroom looked towards the street, and was full of boxes and a pair of battered yellow suitcases. Next was the bathroom, with hexagonal white tiles all over the floor and pale blue squares on the wall. The mirror didn’t catch his reflection, which unsettled Smith for a moment. He lifted one of the toothbrushes, watching it ascend in reflection. 

“At least this should be easy,” he sighed. He couldn’t help but wonder if he looked weird, if he looked dead. How could he even tell if he couldn’t see his reflection? He ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble that hadn’t turned into a beard. It felt okay. Smith ran a hand through his hair, brushing the wavy locks off his forehead.

If you died when you were old, did you get stuck like that? Or did you get to look like your younger self? How did that even work? He’d have to read that handbook later after he had a look around the house.

The other bedroom looked more lived in, with a king sized bed and a pair of nightstands. Clothes spilled out of the closet and dresser, shoes in untidy piles. There was a framed photo on the dresser, of two men embracing on a balcony somewhere. One was tall, pale and dark haired with streaks of grey at his temples. Not bad looking, Smith mused. The second man had lighter hair, and a lot of piercings. They were wearing tuxedos, and grinning at each other. 

A vanity table with a triple mirror was pushed into a corner. There was a makeup case full of eyeliner pencils left open, some hair brushes and a scattering of jewelry. On top of a stack of mail was an open card that read CONGRATULATIONS across the front. “Dear Trott and Ross, hope you love your new place and your new start! I can’t wait to come visit! Much love, Alison” Smith flicked the envelope over to see it was addressed to Chris Trott and Ross Hornby. 

More photos were wedged into the frame of the mirror. One was clearly from a few years ago, both men looking slightly younger. There was no grey in the dark hair, and the other man’s hair was dyed a vivid red. Another showed the dark haired man standing with an awkward smile, holding a plaque and shaking someone’s hand. Smith squinted hard. So this one was Ross, and the other would be Trott. He found a picture of Trott alone, dressed up in a silver sequined mini dress and wearing a blond wig. A stud pierced his lip like a crystal beauty mark. There was another picture of a very large black and grey dog in a park. 

Down the creaking wooden stairs, Smith explored the ground floor living space. It looked like they hadn’t been here long enough to unpack. No sign of a dog though. There was an acoustic guitar and a couple of laptops. Smith was briefly curious, wondering about their musical tastes. An enormous television sat in the living room, with three video game consoles stacked underneath it. The couch looked new, but there was a worn recliner with patched leather upholstery. In the kitchen was a fancy espresso machine almost identical to the one in Smith’s kitchen and a number of colorful bowls. He ran a ghostly hand over the brushed steel and felt a strange pang, the taste of blood in his mouth again. He wondered if he could make an espresso. 

It took a lot of concentration to be able to do more than touch things. He had to focus, teeth gritted, to make his hands solid enough to twist the portafilter off. He was so startled when it finally happened that he immediately dropped it on the counter. Getting the beans into the grinder was another herculean task. But the rich smell of the grounds made his annoyance vanish. He missed coffee. Slowly, laboriously he worked at making a shot. Fortunately there was a cup on the counter. He didn’t bother rinsing it out. The hiss and trickle of the machine gave him a profound sense of satisfaction. 

Drinking it was another matter. He wasn’t sure it wouldn’t just pour right through him to the floor. Smith closed his eyes and brought the cup to his lips with both hands. He very nearly cried at the sensation of the hot espresso in his mouth. It was a little painful but not actually. The taste was muted but it was there. He was drinking something, like he was alive. Greedily, he gulped it down despite the heat. 

It was close to noon, the sun overhead. Smith leaned his head against the window. He wondered if he could just go outside. Beetlejuice had cautioned him about going through the house doors to the outside, mumbling that sometimes it didn’t always work. Smith pushed the front door open and stepped onto the front porch. He could hear the faint sound of a car, birds, a dog barking. A breeze stirred the air and he took a deep breath. He hadn’t felt any wind during his time bumping around in the world of the dead. Another reason to like it better here.

He lit a cigarette and sat on the front step, smoking. It felt nice to be back in the world.

Smith smoked for awhile, until he saw a blond man coming up the sidewalk. It had to be the guy from the photographs.

Trott paused at the gate, before pushing in with a clatter. He had a canvas sack of groceries slung over one shoulder and a smaller paper sack in his arms. He wore a pair of joggers, and a faded blue hoodie too big for him. His hair was scraped back in a short ponytail, and there were three rings in each of his ears. The sunlight glinted on the stud above his upper lip, a bright gold flash. Smith watched him, thinking Trott looked like the hipsters he’d see doing yoga in the park near his townhome. He wondered if Trott did yoga. 

“Hello?” he called out as he slowly walked up the path to the porch. “Can I help you?”

“You can see me!” Smith exclaimed, slightly startled. He wasn’t even trying.

“Yeah.” Trott frowned. “What are you doing on my porch? Who the hell are you?”

“I’m haunting it,” Smith crowed, wiggling his fingers. Concentrating on them for a moment made them into wriggling snakes. It was a good trick. He’d have to remember that.

Trott blinked and backed up a step. Smith made himself invisible then, concentrating hard on turning himself clear as glass. For a few moments, Trott stood there looking puzzled. He sniffed at the air and Smith wondered if he could smell the smoke from his cigarette.

“What the fuck?” Trott mumbled, looking around. He climbed the steps, obviously searching for any sign of a person. He stood right next to Smith, the top of his head about at the level of Smith’s shoulder. Slowly, he turned in a circle.

Smith watched him, delighted. This was going to be more fun than he anticipated. His bandmates were inveterate pranksters and they often made the long journeys between shows bearable with various torments. This was a whole new audience though; these guys had not lived with his tricks for a decade. 

Walking inside, Trott headed to the kitchen to put away his sack of groceries. It was as Smith suspected mostly vegetables though there were two bags of potato chips as well as a package of steaks. Trott set a box full of croissants on the counter. Inside the fridge Smith saw a dozen jars of condiments, a couple bottles of beer and a gallon of milk. Well at least they weren’t annoying vegan yoga people like the woman the record company hired to be their “wellness guru” on the last tour. Kim had been into that but Smith wanted no part of getting up with the sun or downward dogs or green juice.

Then Trott tromped up the stairs, pulling off his hoodie as he went. To Smith’s intense glee, he stripped down for a shower. The body under his casual clothes was not as skinny or shapeless as Smith first imagined. Trott had muscles, well defined arms and legs, and an ass that Smith itched to slap. There was a softness to his belly, a line of dark hair trailing down to his crotch. He also had a number of tattoos. Smith studied the flowers surrounding a skull inked into the back of his shoulder as he leaned over to turn on the taps. Black silhouettes of buildings against an eerie looking sunset wrapped around his left upper arm. There were words tattooed on his hip but Trott turned before Smith could make them out. A bee and a bat circled a key on his leg, fading flowers dropping their petals between them. His toenails were painted a bright red. 

The temptation to reach out and touch him was so strong. A quick caress of his shoulder confirmed Smith’s hypothesis that a ghostly touch was possible. Trott shivered, and cranked up the hot water as he clambered into the tub. He put his face under the water. Overall, he was perfectly attractive. Smith would not have kicked him out of bed. He wondered now if the other man was just as good looking naked. 

The mirror was fogged over with steam from the shower. Tiny water droplets formed on the tiles. Smith dragged his finger through them, slowly increasing the pressure until he could see a line on the glass. Smith drew a smiley face and then crossed it out. 

Smith wondered if he could get off as a ghost. He was turned on, but there wasn’t any urgency to it. He leaned against the wall where he could watch Trott. Like everything else, he could feel things but not really feel them. He didn’t have to sleep or eat or drink or even breathe. He could, if he really worked like he had with the espresso earlier. He’d slept in those uncomfortable waiting room chairs but more out of habit and desire to make time pass more quickly. It annoyed him a little. If only he hadn’t needed to sleep while he was alive! All those hours he could have spent doing anything else - fucking or writing music, going places, even just watching shitty movies. 

That was a thought. Smith wandered downstairs and decided to see what was on the television. 

* * *

“Were you smoking?” Ross asked, carrying his boots in the front door. He wore his new work jeans, and a black button down shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. It was a look that always made Trott a little weak at the knees.

“No!” Trott called out. Early evening light backlit him from the kitchen windows. He was barefoot, wearing his jeans and a tight tank top that showed off his arms. He reached up to twine them around Ross’ neck and kiss him. They swayed together and Ross let his boots drop to wrap his arms around Trott. The kiss lasted a long time, Trott licking over the sharp points of Ross’ teeth. Ross was warm and comfortingly solid.

“I think someone was on our porch earlier,” Trott said quietly when he came up for air. 

“Someone was smoking on our porch?” Ross raised an eyebrow.

“I thought I saw someone when I was coming home from the store but they were gone when I got up the steps.”

“Maybe a neighbor stopping by,” Ross said easily. He kissed Trott’s temple and went to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” Trott chewed on his lip, looking out the front window. He didn’t mention how unsettling the encounter was. The guy was there until he wasn’t, and that grin… It was weird. And after his shower there was a weird smiley face in the steam on the mirror. Trott almost asked Ross if he’d done that but something kept him silent. He didn’t want to say it out loud. It was like saying it might make it more real and more creepy. 

“You want to try that Vietnamese place for dinner?” Ross called out. 

Trott felt a chill and watched goosebumps rise on his arms. He rubbed them, and decided getting out was a good idea.

“Sure,” he agreed. The groceries could wait. Trott just wanted to get out of the house. Maybe the creepy feeling would be gone by the time they got back.

Tossing on his favorite hoodie, Trott hunted for his socks. They weren’t tucked into his shoes where he ordinarily left them and he had to go upstairs for another pair. He felt vaguely uneasy and hurried back down to find Ross waiting for him.

As they walked down to the street, Trott felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He glanced over his shoulder. In the light of the living room window, there was a silhouette of a man. Trott gasped and jerked Ross to a stop.

“There’s someone in the house!” Even as Trott spoke, the silhouette stepped out of sight.

“I don’t see anyone,” Ross said in a puzzled voice.

“He was in the living room, at the window!” Trott could feel himself trembling. 

Ross frowned and turned back to the house. Trott followed him, anxiously clenching his hands into fists. He paused to glance around the porch even though they’d just walked through it a moment ago. For a moment, he thought he could smell cigarettes again.

“Hello?” Ross called out from the open door. The house was quiet and empty. “Anyone here?”

“You’d be the first person murdered in a horror movie,” Trott muttered under his breath from where he clung to the door frame.

“Oh, I doubt that.” Ross smirked as he paced the living room. He sniffed dramatically. “Is there a window open somewhere? Maybe someone was smoking in their yard?”

“I thought I closed the bedroom window earlier.” Trott glanced up the stairs and belatedly wished he’d left a light on up there. It was fully dark outside now, and the stairs were shadowed.

“I’ll check upstairs, okay?” 

“Are you sure?” Trott felt more nervous the longer they stood there. He wasn’t sure if he actually wanted to find the person now.

“It will only take a second.” Ross touched his shoulder. He stood at the base of the stairs looking up and took a deep breath. 

Trott listened to the heavy thump of Ross’ boots moving methodically up and around the second floor. His heart beat faster and he didn’t know if he wanted to stay in the warm yellow lamplight or bolt for the outside. 

A couple minutes passed before Ross clattered downstairs.

“No one’s up there. The bedroom window was open. It was probably just the curtain blowing or something.”

“But I saw him in the living room,” Trott said faintly.

“Do you want me to check the backyard too? Or call the police?”

“No.” Trott shook his head, feeling embarrassed. “No, you’re right. I was just seeing things. Let’s go get some dinner.”

“Okay.” Ross paused and hugged Trott, his nose in Trott’s hair. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Trott hugged Ross tightly. “Let’s go.”

This time when they left the house, Trott didn’t turn around. 

* * *

Smith skulked around for days, exploring the house and getting to know the occupants. Something kept him from going too far away. If he tried to step off the porch, he found himself slipping into darkness. Once he powered through only to find himself in a terrifying sort of desert. The sun gleamed pitilessly and there were no shadows, no trees, nothing but waves of sand. Smith back very quickly out of whatever that was.

He kept his ghostly activities limited largely to the time when Trott was alone. It was much more unsettling to hear strange footsteps when there wasn’t another person around. His boots could thump pleasingly on the wooden floors upstairs. Smith took to walking slowly around the attic in the mornings when Trott stayed in bed after Ross left for work. It took three days before Trott worked up the courage to venture up to the attic in search of the sounds. Smith stood silent and invisible in the center of the room, watching Trott poke around the attic with obvious anxiety. 

Smith turned the television on mostly because he wanted to watch something. It had the advantage of spooking Trott. He would approach warily from the kitchen, or creep down the stairs. Most of the time he quickly turned it off. Sometimes Smith would turn it right back on again. He tried not to laugh as Trott removed the batteries from the remote several times.

Hiding Trott’s keys quickly became his favorite game. Especially when he could return them to the hook by the door after Trott spent fruitless time searching for them. Several times Smith just put them in the fridge. It made him chuckle to watch Trott race around the house, checking and rechecking all the places they could be. Sometimes Smith hid the keys in Trott’s shoes as if they’d just fallen off the hook. He enjoyed Trott’s consternation. 

Weird ghostly noises wouldn’t be enough to make Trott want to seek help though. 

Smith let Trott see him from time to time. Sometimes when Trott walked out the front door, Smith flickered into view where he stood smoking. It inevitably made Trott jump, and sometimes he couldn’t help but laugh. TRott would stand there, looking frightened and pissed off. Smith would flick out of sight again. Sometimes he ruffled Trott’s hair or slapped his ass as he moved past. It was crude but it definitely freaked him out.

Smith also let Trott see him just wandering the house. He came and stared while Trott folded his laundry one day, just to see what he would do. With a moment of concentration, Smith blinked into visibility in the midst of the living room.

“Who the fuck are you and why are you in my house?” Trott blurted out, freezing in place. “How did you get in here?”

“Do you really fold all your socks together?” Smith asked. He reached over and picked up a pair of socks balled together.

Trott stared at him for a moment before snatching the socks away from Smith’s grip.

Smith wiggled his fingers. “Oooooo, I’m a spooky ghost!”

“What the actual fuck?” Trott repeated. His shock made Smith burst out laughing.

“You should see your face, mate.” Smith vanished and left Trott sitting there in shock. He looked as if he couldn’t decide whether he was more angry or scared. Smith flicked Trott’s keys off the hook and let his boots clomp up the stairs. Haunting a house was kind of fun sometimes. 

Smith quickly got the impression of Ross as the sort of person who wouldn’t believe in ghosts even if he saw one. If he flipped the lights on or off, Ross got up to check the bulbs. One evening Ross took the pantry door off the hinges, oiled them and re-installed everything after Trott complained about it creaking and opening on its own. Smith bashed a cup off the table when they were having dinner and Ross spent twenty minutes checking the table legs to make sure they were properly level.

“It’s an old house,” Ross said when Trott muttered darkly about the noise of footsteps in the attic. “It’s probably just the pipes rattling or something.”

“I lived in an even older building before I met you and I never heard creepy footsteps!” Trott folded his arms across his chest and glanced suspiciously around the room.

Ross gamely went upstairs and searched the attic to make sure there was no hidden spaces or anyone lurking. He was just so practical, so firmly grounded. He came home and Smith could smell the sweat, salt and dirt on him. Despite a job that seemed to take him outside often, he was fair skinned with pink cheeks. The aura of health that radiated from him made Smith feel grimy and envious. He bounded with the energy of a large, happy dog and seemed to be enviably sweet, even tempered and kind. Smith watched him greet neighbors when he left the house and when he returned, pausing to discuss a tree with one or petting someone’s dog on the sidewalk. Smith wondered what it would be like to be a guy like him.

* * *

At night, Smith prowled around instead of sleeping. He made the occasional noise but mostly Smith watched them in their bedroom. He wasn’t above a bit of ghostly voyeurism though he was careful to keep himself silent and invisible. He was certain if Trott had any idea he was in here, nothing exciting would happen. 

Watching them kiss was wonderful and frustrating. Smith wanted to touch them, to feel what they were feeling. He yearned to run his hands through Trott’s hair, to feel the close shave at the nape of his neck. He wanted to feel the firm muscles shifting under Ross’ skin, the solidity of him. They were beautiful and it made him crazy to stay back, to stay quiet and unnoticed. Smith had fucked a lot of beautiful people and he was used to being the center of attention either because of his own looks or because he was a rock star. This was a very new and somewhat unwelcome experience.

Even so, he kept returning to watch Trott go down on Ross, his blond head moving in the moonlit shadows as Ross dug his fingers into the sheets and curled his toes. He listened to their whispered endearments, how Trott's voice broke when he moaned Ross’ name as Ross pushed into him. They moved together like lovers with a long and intimate knowledge of each other’s bodies. He could see it in the way Trott tucked himself under Ross’ arm, Ross’ fingers gliding down his side and skipping the ticklish part high on Trott’s ribs. They joked and teased each other, Trott trying to hurry Ross and Ross thrusting as slowly as he could. 

It made Smith feel lonely, if he lingered too long. 

Twice Smith slithered into the bathroom while Trott was showering and flushed the toilet just to see Trott jump behind the azure curtain. He also blatantly ogled him though he hadn’t quite worked up to jerking off. Watching was merely a bit pervy. Actually wanking in the guy’s bathroom while he showered felt like crossing a line, though he couldn’t quite define why that was important. 

He also just didn’t want to find out that being dead meant he couldn’t get off anymore. The sensations of his body, such as they were, still felt a bit strange at times. Being physically present required a lot of effort. He didn’t want to get halfway through and just fade out, stuck in ghostly blue ball purgatory. He felt real, almost like he was alive, unless he thought about it too much or accidentally slipped through a solid object. All his senses felt just a little bit cottony, a bit dulled. 

While Trott showered, Smith drew in the steam on the mirror. He drew an enormous dick on the mirror at first. But then some melancholy impulse stirred him and Smith found himself writing the lyrics from The Anchor on the glass. They’d talked about doing this in a video, having the words appear in the glass around the actor. There were storyboards, and someone had found a director. He remembered an appointment for the casting call that he’d blown off. Smith could taste blood in his mouth again.

He wondered what his band was doing. What the news said about his death. If they’d made the video after all.

The only music he’d heard while he hung around this house was mostly wordless electronic stuff that Ross listened to in the evening while playing video games. Trott sometimes put on music while he was doing things around the house but it was movie soundtracks. The guitar was his, though Smith had not seen him pick it up once during the week. Neither of them seemed to be fans and Smith had a moment of pique. He should at least be haunting someone who was into his work.

“I think of you all the time,” he hummed under his breath as the water clung to the tips of his fingers. Behind him, Trott went still under the shower. Smith made sure he was invisible and slunk into the hallway, leaving Trott to dry off and get dressed. Maybe if he worked at it, he could get Trott’s laptop working and search for news about himself. 

* * *

Trott was making dinner, or at least trying. Cooking wasn’t exactly something he was very good at. Trott’s idea of perfect cooking was ordering take out and putting it on nice plates at home. But the take out options here were less than he was used to and there was this whole kitchen instead of one narrow counter and a half sized fridge like his apartment in the city. He was doing his best with the situation and a couple recipes he found online. 

“That’s gonna burn,” said the ghost. Smith was sitting on the counter, watching him. His boot heels drummed against the cabinet. He showed up every day now. 

Trott had complained to Ross repeatedly about all the weird shit happening in the house but he hadn’t been able to tell him that he could actually see the ghost now. Ross steadfastly found some ordinary explanation for everything. It drove Trott crazy. 

“Fuck off,” Trott said under his breath as he tried to stir the sauce in the pan while he leaned down to peer into the oven where hopefully the potatoes were cooking. Who knew potatoes took forever? Trott had never tried to roast potatoes before. The chicken was sitting on a plate and would probably be cold by the time the potatoes were done. Maybe he should have done the potatoes first. 

“That’s burning,” Smith laughed, right before the smoke alarm began to wail.

Trott flapped a magazine from the table at the alarm. It was just too high to reach unless he climbed on a chair. The acrid tang of smoke made him cough. He grabbed for the pan to yank it off the stove. Heat seared his palm. Trott yelped and jerked back, spilling sauce on the stove top and the floor. He managed to dump the whole thing in the sink where it sizzled angrily. The smoke alarm was still screeching. 

“Fuck!” Trott shouted this time, banging his hand against the counter. He turned on the water full force.

“Have you ever cooked this before?” Smith asked.

“No!” Trott stuck his hand in the freezer and grabbed a handful of ice. It slipped out before Trott could stop himself.

“You’re not very good at this are you?”

“Thanks Captain Obvious.” He shouldn’t acknowledge the ghost. It only made it more determined.

“I’m just calling it like I see it.” Smith looked up at the ceiling. “Damn that’s loud.”

“I know, I know!” Trott could feel the hysteria rising. “If you’re not going to be helpful, fuck off!”

“What, and miss this show?” Smith grinned. “Not bloody likely.”

“Who are you talking to?” Ross asked as he entered the kitchen. He reached up and shut off the smoke alarm. The silence rang in Trott’s ears, a shrill echo.

“The fucking ghost, who else?”

“Troooott,” Ross groaned. “Not the ghost again.”

“I’m telling you, there’s a ghost!” Trott’s voice rose, angry and frightened.

“Trott,” Ross sighed. “If you’re having second thoughts about all this, it’s okay. Really.” He looked around the messy kitchen, the burnt pan in the sink and the sauce spilled on the floor. “You don’t have to do things you don’t want to do, or pretend to be Martha Stewart. It’s okay. I love you, you know that right?”

“Is that what you think this is?” Trott nearly laughed, on the verge of hysteria. “That I’m making up the ghost because I’m having second thoughts about all this? About us?”

“I don’t know what it is,” Ross said. “I do know this house isn’t haunted by the guy who lived here before. I really doubt some other ghost decided to move in the same week we did.”

“How can you, of all people, fucking say that?” Trott’s voice rose.

“Look, I’ve never seen a ghost.” Ross shrugged. “Trott. Chris. I know this is a lot, all this commitment and I know you’re scared but we can work it out, okay?”

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Smith laughed sharply. Trott’s eyes snapped to him.

“God, I like him. He’s dumb but he is pretty good looking.” Smith walked around Ross in a circle, sizing him up. “I’d ride him like a pony.”

“You fucking asshole,” Trott snapped. 

Ross stepped back, looking surprised and hurt.

“Not you, the ghost! He’s right there! Can’t you see him? Or feel him? He is literally right there!” Trott despaired of getting Ross to see what was happening. The ghost wiggled his fingers, grinning.

“Where?” Ross turned, looking around so patiently it broke Trott’s heart.

“You think I’m insane,” he said softly. “You think I’m making this up.”

“No Trott, I don’t.” Ross shook his head. “I think you’re feeling overwhelmed and maybe I haven’t been doing enough to help you with the move and it has all gotten to be too much. That weird attic didn’t help. It’s creepy and living here is different from the city, I get it...”

Smith peered over Ross’ shoulder, grinning sadistically. He stroked his fingers through Ross’ hair. Ross shivered slightly but didn’t say anything.

Trott started to cry. He couldn’t stop himself. The helpless sense of rage and fear that had been with him for days boiled over, and tears ran down his cheeks. His shoulders shook. He covered his face with his hands.

“Fuck,” he managed before tears closed his throat. It wasn’t just the ghost, though Trott figured anyone would probably lose their shit over a ghost. All the anxiety about this move, about whether he was doing the right thing for himself and for this relationship, spilled over.

“Trott.” Ross’ arms folded around him, warm and solid. He felt real. Not like the fizzing sense of static he felt when he touched the ghost earlier. The hair on the back of Trott’s neck lifting, and a prickling sensation wafted over him. The ghost was there, hovering. Waiting. Trott scrunched his eyes shut and refused to look.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Ross murmured. He rocked them from side to side. “You’ll see. Everything is gonna be okay.”

Trott wanted to believe him but the prickling on the back of his neck did not go away. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes red and his face streaked with salt, the ghost was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Smith felt bad when Trott started to cry. It startled him, left him floating there as Ross moved forward to comfort Trott. He hadn’t meant to bully Trott to tears, he told himself. But Smith was very practiced at lying to himself about his motivations and he knew exactly what he’d done. He’d pushed and pushed, fucking with Trott until he couldn’t take it any more.

An image of his bandmates Kim and Randy flashed into his mind, both of them shaking their heads when he was too cruel about something. Normally he’d laugh them off and change the conversation. A joke too far was just a joke. It was always fine. They knew him. You couldn’t be in a band with someone for ten years and not have a fine tuned sense of when someone was serious and when they were just being over the top. Trott didn’t really know him though.

Now it was just him, a ghost with his own ghostly sense of guilt.

The more he thought about, the more Smith had to admit he’d grotesquely fucked up. Here he was, harassing some random guy who wasn’t even a fan, so some other random dead guy could do something to him. Smith started to feel a bit squeamish about the whole deal. It was shitty. It was beyond shitty, into that realm of unethical and wrong. Kim would yell at him and Randy would no doubt just stare silently in that way that conveyed all his disappointment. Randy was very good at judgemental looks. 

Smith let himself fade out and he drifted upstairs, all the way up into the attic. He doubted anyone would come up here tonight, and he couldn’t face Trott at the moment. Smith needed to think. He had been so wrapped up in escaping his own despair and his own death that he hadn’t considered anything else.

He wanted to scream and rage. It was so unfair that he was dead. Things were so good! The last album! Their tour! Everyone was happy and so what if he was partying pretty hard, he deserved it, didn’t he? He’d been out there for months, night after night for their fans singing and dancing and giving them the show they came to see. He had earned a little fun. 

The last time he saw Kim, she’d told him to take it easy. He’d scoffed and she’d just held onto him tightly for a long minute. It made Smith so mad and sad that she’d been right. Who had told her? What had she done when she found out? Was she shocked? Resigned? Relieved that it was finally over and she could stop worrying about it?

He wanted to see her. He wanted to talk to her. If he got this stupid thing done for Beetlejuice, he’d be free to go see her.

But could he really go through with it? 

The more he thought about it, the more revulsion he felt. Whatever Beetlejuice was going to do was probably terrible. He shouldn’t be involved. He shouldn’t even be in their house. Part of him wanted to fuck off back to the afterlife and find some place to hide. 

* * *

If someone asked him a couple weeks ago what was more scary, a ghost or an intruder, Trott would have said people were far more scary. He could watch scary movies and go to haunted houses all day long to enjoy the excitement. But the idea of a serial killer, a stalker, or just some creep determined to steal his shit was far more chilling.

A real person was something he could fight, or at least call the police about. Trott had no idea how to deal with a ghost or hallucination or whatever the hell was happening to him.

Trott walked down to the mailbox. He refused to let himself turn around, to see if the ghost was watching him. It had been quiet today, and he just didn’t trust it. He felt jumpy, certain that any moment something would fly across the room or he’d see that man lounging around on the couch or standing in the bathroom. He felt watched all the time now.

Clouds moved steadily across the sky. The wind was turning cold and rattling the trees. He shivered even in Ross’ old university sweatshirt, tucking his hands into his sleeves. The faintest sprinkle of rain fell on him.

The mail was full of the usual junk, the weekly flyer for the grocery store by the highway, ads for window replacement. A brightly colored flyer caught his eye, the paper hot pink and acid green. The border was a wriggly pattern of snakes chasing their tails.

“Need help with unwanted visitors? Want to stop those bumps in the night? I’m here to help! Evict your ghostly roommates! Best exorcism and poltergeist services in town! Call for a free consultation! Make your appointment today! Don’t wait!” There was a phone number at the bottom, flanked by two drawings of skulls. It was bizarre. 

“Are you fucking kidding?” Trott said under his breath. “That’s a lot of exclamation marks.” He flipped the flyer over but there wasn’t a stamp or anything. Someone must have just stuffed it in the box. 

Trott stood on the curb, looking up and down the street. It was quiet, not a person in sight. The wind stirred the leaves a little. A bird cried out somewhere. It felt eerie even in the bright autumnal sunshine. Trott snuck a quick glance at the house but he didn’t see Smith there on the porch or lurking at a window. He felt an intense dread in the pit of his stomach. 

Ross didn’t believe him. It infuriated Trott. Of all people, he should be the one to understand. He couldn’t believe that Ross didn’t see the ghost. Or the more horrifying fear that Ross did see and was pretending not to in some horrible gaslighting plan. Trott recognized his thoughts spiraling into a sort of paranoia. 

His cell phone was in his pocket. Trott dialed the number, staring up the street and chewing on his lip.

* * *

“Oh you are fucking kidding me,” Smith said. He stood on the stairs, watching the front door. He’d finally nerved himself up to appear again, thinking maybe he could try to smooth things over with Trott. When he finally came downstairs the doorbell was ringing.

“Mr. Trott?” Beetlejuice asked. “You made an appointment?” He leaned over the threshold, dressed up in a faded old suit and carrying an old fashioned doctor’s satchel. His skin had an unhealthy pallor and Smith wondered how Trott did not see just how unnatural he looked.

“Are you Mr. Amorth?” Trott asked.

“Indeed.” Beetlejuice grinned. “May I come in?”

“Sure, sure.” Trott held the door open. Beetlejuice followed Trott to the kitchen table, giving Smith a cheeky wink along the way. His teeth gleamed, yellow and crooked. Smith followed, annoyed that he was being interrupted by this already.

“Do you want a cup of coffee?” Trott asked over his shoulder.

“You can’t trust him!” Smith yelled angrily, smacking his hand down on the table so that it jumped. Trott looked startled, coffee sloshing out of his cup. He took a deep breath to steady his hands.

“Oh my, you really have got a wild one.” Beetlejuice drew the words out. He grinned and smoothed a hand down the front of his suit. Little puffs of dust drifted in the light. There was a rank, rotten smell and Smith had the sudden wild thought that Beetlejuice had taken that suit off a corpse. 

“Can’t you tell? He’s not human!” Smith glared at Trott, who refused to even look at him. “Listen to me, this is a really bad idea okay? You do not want this guy around!”

“They’ll say anything, the dead. They aren’t bound to tell the truth or anything like that.” Beetlejuice laughed abruptly. “They’ll lie, they’ll say anything to stay here in the world of the living because the world of the dead is well…” He gestured as if describing the afterlife would be too much in the sunny kitchen of Trott’s home. “Who wouldn’t want to stay in this lovely home?”

“Fucking hell,” Smith muttered. “Can you believe this shit?”

“Real peach you are,” Beetlejuice chuckled. “Got a mouth on you.”

“You can see him?” Trott asked.

“Oh yes. About this tall, red headed guy wearing a leather jacket?” Beetlejuice held a hand up.

“That’s him.”

“You son of a bitch,” Smith growled.

Trott took in the whole scene with an air of abject misery. 

“I can’t live like this. It’s wrecking everything. He’s always here, he won’t leave me alone, and my partner can’t see him at all. I feel like I’m losing my mind.” His words spilled out rapidly, Trott’s voice shaking.

Beetlejuice hummed sympathetically.

“I just want him gone,” Trott begged. “Please tell me you can do something about this.”

“Oh, I can do something.” Beetlejuice grinned. “I can definitely do something. You just gotta put your faith in me, bucko, and we’ll have this ghost out of your house in no time.”

“Finally.” Trott rubbed his face.

“We’ll just need some blood, from you and your… partner? Boyfriend? Cabana boy? Husband?”

“Blood?” Trott looked surprised. “Is that really something we have to do?”

“Gotta have the blood of everyone living here,” Beetlejuice said. “Part of the ritual you know.”

“Really?” Trott’s skepticism finally showed. “Mr. Amorth, I don’t-”

“Yep, that’s how it works.” Beetlejuice pulled an oversized, ancient looking book out of his bag. “Got a dozen banishing rituals in here but the best way to get out a handsy poltergeist like this fellow -” He paused to point dramatically at Smith. “You’re gonna need the top of the line.”

Trott leaned forward to look at the book, eyebrows raised. Before he could touch it, Beetlejuice slammed it shut. Trott jumped in his seat. 

“Cause, look, I can shoo him away.” Beetlejuice flapped one hand in Smith’s direction. “But he’s gonna come back. Ghosts like him are trouble and they’ll stick to you like glue. So you gotta go all in, commit to the program, and pow!”

Trott nervously turned the cup in his hands. “You really think so?”

“I know so. Watch this.” Beetlejuice did something and Smith felt himself shifting. It was like he was evaporating. It scared the hell out of him, to feel himself being drawn away.

“Hey what the fuck? What the fuck?” he shouted. The last he saw of Trott’s kitchen was Beetlejuice’s manic grin and Trott’s surprised face.

* * *

Smith found himself back in the hallways of the afterlife, furious and no small amount humiliated at his dismissal. His pride was deeply wounded. Being banished like that felt unpleasant. It happened all too quickly. Maybe he needed to learn how to prevent that in the future.

He decided to go see Sips. Smith lied his way through the waiting room, claiming he had an appointment with his caseworker. When someone left Sips’ office, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him. This didn’t seem to faze anyone. Smith couldn’t tell if that was just bureaucratic boredom or if this was just business as usual in the afterlife. He launched into his story as soon as he shut the door, not giving Sips a chance to interject in his breathless recital of events.

“What did I fucking tell you?” Sips sighed, staring up at the ceiling when Smith finally stopped talking. He’d lit one of his own cigarettes. Smoke spiraled up to the water stained ceiling tiles. “I told you not to get involved with that guy!”

“I know!” Smith said miserably. “I know, okay? I fucked up. But I can fix this, right?”

“How exactly are you gonna fix it?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m here talking to you!”

“I can’t do shit out there,” Sips said in a dull voice. “They’re not my clients. You’re my client.”

“But it will help me to help them! Won’t it?”

“That’s not how the higher ups are gonna see this. Jesus tittyfucking Christ, this is going to look bad in my review.”

Sips groaned and put his head in his hands. Smith felt a little queasy as he watched Sips stick a finger in the bullet hole at his temple.

“I am never getting out of this department,” Sips muttered. “Why do I gotta end up with all the idiot cases, I know what I’m paying for but jeeze louise how fucking long is it gonna take, if I’d had any idea…”

“Look, I know I fucked up. But if I could turn this around… I could find some way to stop him from hurting Trott and Ross. Are there cops? Can’t you guys arrest him on something?”

Sips just sighed, smoke rolling out of his mouth.

“There are things… but it takes a lot to get that to happen. I mean, if he ever showed his face here again he’d probably get popped for it. I know he’s barred from the premises though so I’m not even sure he can just walk in the door. It’s complicated.”

“It’s not in the book,” Smith grumbled. “I already looked.”

“Yeah, I don’t even know if I have an updated code book in here.” Sips groaned and leaned back in his chair. It protested with a squeal. “Fuck me, why do I always end up with these disasters? Come on!” He shook one fist at the ceiling as if it had any answers.

Smith slumped in his seat and put his head in his hands. 

“Look,” Sips said after a long pause. “I can’t tell you, as your caseworker, to go back there. You aren’t supposed to even be there.”

“Right.”

“But if for some reason you were there, and he was there, then you gotta say his name three times to send him back to the afterlife. He has to be called, to let him step into their house. Your buddy did that. So he’s gotta be called back.” Sips spoke with his eyes on the ceiling. 

“He’s not my buddy,” Smith sighed. “I think he hates me. I have been kind of a dick.”

“Kind of? Or a full on dick?”

“Well…” Smith felt himself shrink under Sips’ penetrating stare.

“That’s what I thought,” Sips grunted.

* * *

At least he’d been able to get back to the house. Smith had worried that whatever Beetlejuice did earlier might keep him out. But the door opened up easily and he found himself in the bathroom upstairs. Everything was dark and quiet. It was near midnight.

Outside, the moon was just rising above the treetops. Moonlight left deep blue shadows in the bedroom. Trott was sleeping soundly, sprawled out in the bed. Ross lay on his side, knees drawn up and one arm tucked under his head. Smith leaned against the wall, watching them. He was worrying at the rings on his fingers, wondering how to stop things. He couldn’t go through with helping Beetlejuice. His conscience had finally caught up with him. But he didn’t know how to stop Trott from doing whatever the guy suggested.

Smith watched Ross get up, carefully shifting the covers so as not to disturb the other man. He walked quietly over the wooden floor, surprisingly lightly for such a big man, and down the stairs. They barely creaked. Smith followed him curiously. He’d never seen Ross wander in the night before.

Barefoot, wearing only a pair of boxers, Ross stepped out the back door. There was a small concrete slab and a few steps. Trees were silhouetted against the blue black sky, and stars speckled it. The moon was heavy, almost full. Ross stood there, arms at his sides, staring up at it. He looked even more pale in the light, like a marble statue.

Just when Smith was about to try to startle him or see if he could finally get Ross to notice him, Ross crouched down. Then he moved and his outline seemed to blur. The moonlight left deep shadows that hid whatever he was doing. Smith moved a little closer, risking leaving the doorway to stand on the back steps.

When Ross turned his head, his eyes were glowing yellow. 

“Holy shit,” Smith whispered.

He was changing right before Smith’s eyes. Ross’ pale skin sprouted fur that spread rapidly over his body. His body shook, crouched and changing rapidly. Even in the dark, Smith could see the way his limbs bent and morphed. A breath later, an enormous dog stood there on the concrete patio.

Not a dog, Smith thought. A wolf. A werewolf.

Ross tilted his head from side to side. His fur was black, and there were pale streaks at the sides of his face and on his legs. His ears stood up, swiveling to listen to the night. He sniffed, and opened his mouth so Smith could see his sharp white teeth. Then he turned, his claws scraping at the concrete. Looking right at Smith, he huffed. Then he growled. The sound was low and threatening. 

“Shit.” Smith stepped back into the kitchen. Ross loped after him. Claws clicked on the concrete as it came up the steps and into the house.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to be here, whoa whoa no!” Smith flung his arms up when Ross leapt at him even though he knew it would be fine. It was just scary to have a giant wolf jump for your face. He expected Ross to slide right through him. He was a ghost, after all.

Except that didn’t happen. Teeth latched onto his forearm and the heavy weight on the wolf knocked him flat on his back. It shocked Smith so badly he didn’t even scream. It hurt, it hurt so much he just froze while sharp teeth dug into his ghostly arm. The pain was sharp and cold, more vivid than any sensation he’d experienced. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Smith stared right into those glaring yellow eyes and thought he was going to die all over again. Would be worse? Where did ghosts go when they died? 

He started to shake, tremors running through his body. Smith thought if he had a heart beat it would be stuttering right now. The pain zinged through him like an electric shock.

Abruptly, Ross let go of his arm. He was still standing over Smith, growling. Teeth snapped right in front of his face. Smith squeezed his eyes shut with a whimper. He couldn’t control his body, couldn’t make himself more or less solid in the moment. 

“Why didn’t I think to look before? Damn it.” Ross’ voice startled Smith into opening his eyes.

“You can see me?” Smith’s arm throbbed. He wondered why he wasn’t bleeding for a moment, and then he remembered that ghosts didn’t bleed unless they worked at it. For a second, the image of blood shimmered before him. Smith hastily squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on just being whole. It still hurt though. 

“Now I can.” Ross sounded rueful. “Now that I’ve looked, I can see you.” He was crouched on the floor in front of Smith, shaped like a man again. He scraped one hand through his black and silver hair. “I am such an idiot, I should have done this in the first place.”

“You’re… I mean, you changed how is that even, what the fuck?” Smith babbled. He scooted himself up against the kitchen cabinet.

“I’m a werewolf.” Ross cocked his head curiously. “You didn’t know?”

“How? I mean, I didn’t even think ghosts were real until a couple weeks ago!” Smith held his arm to his chest. He’d gotten so used to the weird numbness of death that the pain rattled him badly.

“Sorry about the bite.” Ross tentatively reached out his hand. “I’m Ross.”

“I know.” Smith tried to make his hand as solid as he could, so they could shake. “I’m Alex Smith.”

Ross didn’t seem to recognize his name or his face. It stung a little but Smith tried not to think about it. 

“You’ve been bothering Trott. Why?”

“It’s a long story.” Smith looked down, guilt roiling in his stomach.

“We can keep sitting here. Or would you rather sit on the couch or a chair while you tell me?”

The simple kindness undid him, and Smith found himself spilling his guts to Ross while they sat on the dark kitchen floor. He babbled about dying, about the hellish waiting room, about not knowing what would happen and how badly he didn’t want to be dead. About meeting Beetlejuice and taking that shitty job because it was a chance to be alive again. He stumbled over the part about how he’d get to possess Ross, but it didn’t seem to upset him. During the entire story, Ross sat there listening patiently. Now that Smith was looking for it, he could see the gold flecks in Ross’ blue eyes, a gleam that made them brighter in the dark. 

“I’m sorry,” Smith said at the end. He felt wrung out by the confession. The ache in his arm had faded to a dull throb. “I’m sorry, I really am. I know it doesn’t make it okay at all. I was so fucking scared and freaked out about this being dead thing, I thought I would do anything to get out of it.”

Ross shrugged. He’d taken the revelation that Smith intended to possess his body with a curious equanimity. 

“We all make bad decisions when we’re scared.” 

“He can’t go through with this thing, that motherfucker will kill him or something. I’m not even really sure what’s going to happen. Just that it will be bad.”

“Yeah.” Ross rested his elbows on his knees. He tapped his fingers together. “Yeah, we need to figure something out.”

* * *

The Friday twilight was deepening and shadows stretched long across the front yard. The few rays of sunshine that poked through the massing clouds were red. A cold wind twisted leaves off the trees and flung them against the windows. The air smelled like a storm.

Trott turned on a lamp downstairs to counter the gloom and paced nervously. He hadn’t seen the ghost all day, though he’d heard a few ominous noises. He’d put this off as long as he could but Ross would be home soon. He’d called and said he was going to stop in a work happy hour for a drink. Trott wanted this all done before Ross got home.

The vials clinked between his fingers. Despite what the weird exorcist guy had said, he hadn’t gotten Ross’ blood. It seemed like too crazy of an ask, especially when Ross didn’t believe the ghost existed. Plus he didn’t know what might happen if this guy knew about Ross. Maybe werewolf blood would throw the whole thing off. Maybe it could even hurt Ross. Trott didn’t want to risk it. Instead he filled the vials with his own blood, feeling a bit faint as he tried not to look directly at the cut on his finger while he squeezed.

Juggling a bowl and candles along with the vials of blood, Trott climbed the steep attic stairs. It took a couple tries before he managed to light the emergency candles with a match. Outside there was a low rumble of thunder and a flicker of lightning. Trott hoped Ross wouldn’t get caught out in the rain. Maybe he’d stay a little longer at happy hour. He reached in his pocket for his phone and realized it was downstairs. 

The instructions were written out in the stranger’s messy handwriting. Most of the words seemed like nonsense, and he stumbled through reading them off the paper the guy had given him. As he spoke, he emptied the blood into the bowl. His reflection in the mirror he’d dragged upstairs earlier was pale, his brow furrowed and his lower lip caught between his teeth. 

“Beetle juice, beetle juice, beetle juice,” he said under his breath as he finished reading the page. Total nonsense. Trott really hoped this would work. At least he wasn’t out any money. Not yet anyways. They guy said Trott only had to pay if things worked out.

The flames guttered, and then rose dramatically. Trott stepped back, anxious.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” A man was standing behind him. Trott jumped.

“How did you get up here?” He cocked his head. “Mr Amorth?”

“You called, duh.” He cackled and slung an arm over Trott’s shoulders. “And I came running!”

“But I didn’t... “ Trott glanced down at the paper in his hand. “Beetle juice? A name?”

“You got it!” The paper in Trott’s hand flared with a burst of green fire and he dropped it. Quickly it dissolved into ash that drifted between the boards.

“Nice and romantic up here, huh? No bed? That’s okay, we can do it on the floor. Hard on my knees you know. I’m getting older.” 

“What?”

Beetlejuice slid a hand down and squeezed Trott’s ass with a cackle. He leered, uncomfortably close and Trott tried to push back. 

“The ghost- you said - what is happening?”

“You don’t have to worry about him anymore. I’m here now, baby, and I’ll protect you.” Beetlejuice leaned in and licked Trott’s cheek. His breath was rancid. Trott twisted, pushing and trying to get away.

“Let me go.” Trott’s voice sounded breathy, a little frightened. It wasn’t the commanding tone he wanted.

Beetlejuice cackled again. He groped Trott, keeping him pressed tight. The smell of rot surrounded them. Trott tried to breathe through his mouth, panicking.

“Stop it.” The ghost was there now, standing in the attic by the brick wall. He frowned at them, arms crossed.

“You’re just in time!” Beetlejuice said gleefully. “What do you say to a little sharing, hmm? I’m feeling pretty generous tonight, and you’ve been watching him shower for so long. Might as well finally get to have some fun, eh?”

“What the fuck?” The ghost looked offended, frowning. “You cannot be serious.”

Beetlejuice squeezed Trott tightly so their cheeks were smashed together. “He’s into it. I mean, just look at that pretty face of his. I bet he’d like a little double team action, wouldn’t you?”

“Let me go! Fucking hell!” Trott wriggled, trying to escape Beetlejuice’s grasp. But the man’s arms seemed to be everywhere, hands holding on tightly. They were too long, and Trott’s breath came in jerky gasps as he realized they were wound around him like ropes.

“This deal is over,” Smith said angrily. “Beetlejuice!”

“Ahh not so fast!” Beetlejuice wagged his finger and Smith’s mouth just vanished. He glared, his eyes furious blue flames. His hands clawed at the smooth skin where his lips used to be. Beetlejuice flicked his hand and Smith fell back against the wall.

“Now then,” Beetlejuice began. Something crashed into them, sending them to the floor. Trott yelped, hitting the wood heavily. Beetlejuice’s arms vanished. He scrambled away from the sound of snarling and scraping.

Ross was there, his enormous wolf shape pinning Beetlejuice to the floor. He had his teeth in Beetlejuice’s shoulder, tearing at him with a ferocity Trott had never seen before. There was a terrible sound coming from him. Beetlejuice was screaming and screaming, arms flailing as he tried to shove Ross off him. But Ross dug in hard, jaws snapping as he used his weight to drive Beetlejuice into the floor. His back feet skidded on the wood, claws scoring the boards.

Smith rose to his feet. His mouth was back and he shook his head, like he was popping his neck. He looked pissed as he stepped forward towards Beetlejuice and Ross struggling in the center of the room. Things were happening. Books tumbled off the shelves. The house seemed to shake. Cracks appeared in the walls and the ceiling, beams of sickly light shining through. 

“Ross!” Trott screamed. He didn’t know what to do. “Ross look out!”

Smith grabbed a hold of Beetlejuice, who was still trying to hit at Ross.

“Help me you fuck face prick!” Beetlejuice demanded.

“I got him,” Smith said grimly. 

Ross savaged the man’s chest with another bite before springing back. Smith dragged Beetlejuice backwards, towards the bricks. One of the cracks moved swiftly, and Trott watched open mouthed as a door appeared. 

“Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice,” Smith half sang as he dragged him to the doorway.

“No!” He rolled and twisted, trying to wriggle out of Smith’s grip.

“Beetlejuice!” Smith and Beetlejuice disappeared, along with the door.

The house grew quiet as the rumbling faded. The cracks and the light disappeared. Ross shook himself, ears flapping, and then padded over to where Trott sat. He nuzzled Trott and licked his cheek. There were bloody streaks in his fur.

“What did you do?” Trott whispered, horrified. “Oh god, Ross, what did you do? What just happened?”

It took a moment for Ross to shift back to his more human form. He looked weary, and one of his eyes was bruising already. His shirt was ripped open and he was covered in jagged scratches. Blood stained his clothes, some of the scratches oozing. 

“Come on downstairs and I can explain everything.” Ross shook himself. “Goddamn that was weird and not fun.”

“Do you believe me now?” Trott asked, his voice rising hysterically. “About the ghost?”

“I’m so sorry, Trott. Come on.” Gently, Ross helped Trott to his feet and hugged him tightly. Outside, rain pattered gently on the roof. All the sense of ghostly presence was gone, leaving the house quiet and peaceful. Trott clung tightly to Ross all the way down to the kitchen. 

* * *

Smith and Beetlejuice stumbled out of the doorway right into the midst of a hall full of afterlife bureaucrats going about their business. Someone shrieked and flung a stack of old fashioned dot matrix printer pages into the air. They fluttered in a long snake of paper with hole punched edges. 

Smith hadn’t known if the door trick would work exactly. He’d hoped to land right in Sips’ office, or at least the waiting room. This was close enough. Now he just had to find Sips and hope this dumb crazy idea of getting Beetlejuice in trouble with his old job would work.

Beetlejuice was still screaming and flailing on his back. The front of his striped suit was ripped open and dark blood stained his clothes. With a roar, he bounced to his feet and knocked Smith into the grey dingy wall. Bits of paint and drywall cracked loose. Malice burned in Beetlejuice’s eyes, actual little green flames that sprang out of his face. He looked significantly less human and Smith wondered just what exactly Beetlejuice really was.

“You double crossing son of a bitch, I’m going to eat your soul for a snack you two bit piece of shit, you think you can get away with fucking me over!” Beetlejuice was enraged, his eyes bulging. His entire face seemed to stretch, his mouth getting wider with each word. 

Long fingers wrapped themselves around Smith’s neck. It was painful, even if he didn’t really have to breathe. But the pressure felt like Beetlejuice was going to tear his actual head off and Smith did not want to find out if it would just go back on. He grunted, hitting and clawing at Beetlejuice. Smith managed to croak out a feeble “help” that sounded barely audible over the shouting. Blackness crept in, spots and tendrils that shrank his vision to a narrow tunnel. Smith kicked out, trying to get Beetlejuice to back up or let go. He couldn’t tell if he was making any good contact. 

Smith was so concentrated on trying to pry Beetlejuice’s fingers off his neck he wasn’t paying attention to the hall or anyone else. When someone lifted Beetlejuice away, he took a breath in surprise and immediately doubled over in a coughing spasm. Smith sank to his knees, the pattern of the carpet wavering in his vision.

“What the fuck?” he heard Sips say.

“Security!” someone else shouted.

“Isn’t that one of your clients?”

“Someone call Juno! Holy shit!”

“Hold onto him!”

“Sir, you were issued a no trespass order-”

“Aww fuck you and fuck your orders!” Beetlejuice raged. “Fuck all of you!”

“Calm down and cease this-”

Smith rolled over to see Beetlejuice take a swing at a hulking figure in a faded blue uniform, his fist transformed into a comically large mallet. A rain of small colorful snakes exploded out of the ceiling. Someone was screaming and there was a smell like burning hair. But then he stiffened, his entire body jolting as if he’d been electrocuted. An unearthly howl erupted from his lips. Smith coughed again, and fell back on the floor. The last thing he saw was Sips leaning over him with a disgruntled expression before he passed out.

* * *

The early light streaming in the front windows was bright and clear. A storm had swept through and wet leaves to the screen door. When Smith stepped out of the halls of the afterlife, he stepped right through the front door. 

Trott stared at Smith, his expression flat and closed. He was curled up on the end of the couch, wearing plaid pajama pants and that oversized hoodie. In his hands, he cradled a large cup of coffee. Smith inhaled, briefly enjoying the smell. Coffee smelled so fucking good. One of the weird things in the afterlife was how nothing seemed to have a smell. It was like all the scent and taste were gone, leaving only color and sound. He never would have guessed how much that bothered him.

“Hey,” Smith said awkwardly. “Is this a bad time?”

“Normal people knock instead of barging into other people’s homes,” Trott said. His voice was calm, but there was an acid edge to it. 

Smith winced.

“Sorry. I can do that, give me a second-”

Trott cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“It’s fine. Whatever. You’re here.”

“I came to, I dunno, apologize. For being a dick and haunting you.”

“Uh huh.” Trott’s expression was skeptical, his eyes narrowed. 

“Look. I haven’t been dead very long. I sort of freaked out, and then I just took that out on you a bit, going too far with pranking you.”

“And you helped some other guy get into my house to kill me, and you planned on possessing my boyfriend,” Trott finished. “Is there anything else?”

Smith wanted to just evaporate right out of the room. He felt himself growing insubstantial, as if his body was running away before the rest of him. There was something cartoonish about it. He tried to center himself.

“There’s not really a good excuse for any of that.” 

“No,” Trott agreed.

“For whatever it's worth, I am sorry.” 

Trott shook his head, and brought the cup to his lips. The silence filled the space between them. 

“I’m still mad at you for all of this.”

“That’s fair,” Smith said, his voice quiet. “I’d be mad, in your place. Though I would have probably assumed I was hallucinating or drunk if I saw a ghost.”

“I looked you up,” Trott said after another pause. “Guess I should have recognized you.”

“Huh?”

“You kept writing song lyrics on the mirror,” Trott explained. “I googled them, and your songs came up. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you straight away.”

“Right.” Smith half smiled. 

“Pretty rockstar way to go, overdosing at a party.”

“It wasn’t intentional.” Smith shrugged. “It’s why I’m in this mess, a ghost.”

“Ross told me about this whole waiting room in hell thing.”

“If I’d known this waiting for me, I definitely would have stayed clean.”

Trott nodded.

“One of my friends loves your stuff. She went to rehab last month, and I think it was because you died.”

“I hope it helps her,” Smith said sincerely. His mouth tasted like old coins again. He looked down, shuffling his feet. For the first time, he wondered if he should take his shoes off inside or if it didn’t matter since he was a ghost.

Trott set his cup down on the end table alongside a pile of books. The living room was completely unpacked now, all the boxes were gone. There were even a few pieces of art up on the walls. It looked more lived in, more like a home than a room.

Ross bounded up the front steps and through the door, wearing running clothes and flushed with exertion. His t-shirt clung to him, and his bright red running shorts were quite short. The dark hair on his legs was plastered to his skin with sweat. He grinned widely at the sight of Smith standing awkwardly in the living room. 

“Hey! How are you? Did everything go okay?” he asked as he knelt to untie his laces. 

“Hey.” Smith tried not to ogle him. “It was fine.”

“Are you in any kind of trouble?” Ross’ open, curious gaze undid Smith a little. He wished he was alive so he could flirt and take this man into his bed.

“No, not any more than I already was.” 

Once he’d regained consciousness, he found himself on the grubby loveseat in Sips’ office, piles of paperwork displaced and his feet hanging over the arm. Sips had been torn between amusement and outrage when Smith explained things after the fact. There was no way to really tell how long he was in there but in Smith’s mind it felt like days. From the shape of the living room that seemed accurate.

“That’s good then, right?” Ross’ voice dragged him back into the here and now. Trott was staring at the two of them, his expression impossible to read.

“I guess so. I still just, have to wait around. They’re going to deal with that guy straight away.” 

“What exactly did you do with him?” Trott interrupted.

“I took him into the office where all the people are waiting around,” Smith explained. “Apparently he used to work there, ages ago. But he fucked something up or did something bad, so they fired him? I don’t know exactly how it works and I’m not sure anyone there does either. But he’s not supposed to show up. We sorta, got into a shoving match and then someone called security and that was that.” 

“What’s security in a place like that?” Ross wondered aloud.

“I didn’t exactly see them,” Smith admitted. “I think I got hit on the head or something, he choked me out in the fight.”

“Ouch.” 

“Yeah. Anyways, my caseworker Sips, he said I might have to answer questions about whatever happens with that guy. It won’t be fun.” 

Sips had been deeply unsure about what would happen there, whether it would help Smith or hurt him ultimately. The thought of it was not comforting.

“So what happens for you now?” Ross asked. He perched on the arm of the couch beside Trott.

“Well.” Smith hugged himself for a moment, thinking. “Basically I just keep waiting. I tried to see if I could go to my home, or even the studio, or maybe Kim’s house…” It seemed so simple to him but the layers of bureaucracy were hard to part. Sips had tried his best but eventually he’d conceded there wasn’t much he could do.

“Only I can’t, exactly. Or I’m not allowed. Believe me, I tried to just sneak off. But apparently because I came here, I’m stuck with this. I can’t just up and go back to my own place.”

“That sucks,” Ross said quietly. Trott snorted. Ross put a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, you can always come visit here,” Ross said. 

“I dunno…” Smith said warily. 

Trott just sighed. “He’s so forgiving, all the time. Frankly sometimes it is annoying.”

“Trott, we talked about this!” Ross looked wounded. “He made some mistakes, but he did the right thing and he didn’t let anyone get hurt!”

“He’s been watching us shower!” Trott said indignantly.

“Well, can you blame him?” Ross laughed. “I think I’d do that too, if I was a ghost.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side, not the ghost’s side!” 

“I just think it can be worked out,” Ross said diplomatically. “Besides, weren’t you the one who wanted us to have someone watch? Wasn’t that part of why you suggested the threesome last summer?”

Trott flushed scarlet, red all the way to his hairline. “That was different!”

“Different how?”

“Well for starters it wasn’t with a ghost! And I knew it was happening!”

Smith watched them bicker with some consternation and amusement. It made him feel a bit melancholy. He would have liked to have had a threesome with these two. 

“Well, I’m going to shower,” Ross said finally. He stood up and peeled off his shirt. Dark hair formed a wedge pointing down on his torso into the waistband of his running shorts. “You can come, both of you. I don’t mind the company.” He winked and jogged up the stairs.

With a theatrical groan, Trott drank the last of his coffee. “Nice to a fault, and utterly shameless. I don’t know why I stick around.”

“He loves you,” Smith said. When Trott did a double take, he shrugged. “What? It would be wildly obvious even if he hadn’t told me a hundred times already.”

“Love does funny things to a person,” Trott said after a pause. 

“You should go join him.”

“Are you going to be there?”

“I can give you guys some privacy. I’ll just go smoke or something.”

“Right.” Trott looked up the stairs, and then back at Smith. “I don’t really know if I’ll stop being mad soon. But I get it. I sort of understand. And I’ll probably forgive you, eventually.”

“Cool.” Smith watched Trott walk up the stairs. The sound of the shower turning on, and the murmur of voices drifted down to him. He went out onto the porch. His boots moved soundlessly through the scattering of dried leaves.

Smith was so mad at himself. If he hadn’t gotten sucked into Beetlejuice’s scheme, if he’d just read that stupid handbook for the recently deceased, he could have gotten himself home. Or even to Kim’s house which was just as good really. Before the last tour, she’d bought a big old house outside of the London sprawl. It was gorgeous, like something out of a movie. He’d spent a week there not long after she moved in and woken up every day to watch a herd of alpacas at the farm that bordered her land. They were silly and fuzzy, and they chewed on the shrubs along the fence. Kim had already made friends with the neighbor, and fed them carrots.

But instead, here he was. Stuck in this little house in some tiny American town he’d never even heard of. No alpacas. The only redeeming quality was Ross and Trott were hot. But Trott was rightfully pissed about the situation, and Ross was apparently a werewolf. Smith laughed. Who knew America was full of werewolves? Kim and Randy would love knowing this.

He ached, all the way through. A deep, persistent ache that made him want to scream. Smith hated being dead. Slumped against the side of the house, he wrapped his arms around his knees and wondered what would happen now.

* * *

_ Halloween _

Children raced along the sidewalks, talking and laughing. High pitched shrieks sometimes rang out. Flashlights bobbed in the hands of adults trailing along, clustering to chat while the children went door to door. Tiny flames flickered in pumpkins at every home. Autumn leaves crunched underfoot, tossed by the few chilly breezes. It was full dark now, the sky purple and black with a smattering of stars. 

A half dozen jack o'lanterns were lined up on the porch of Ross and Trott’s home. Ross had strung purple lights up and paper bats that fluttered and spun. He’d even changed the porch light to a red bulb to give the porch a sinister glow. Earlier he’d put on his costume, a fighter pilot’s jumpsuit covered in fake military patches. 

“Do you want a trick, or do you want a treat?” Ross asked the group of children clustered at the front door. There was a fireman, a zombie, a lion and a tiny child dressed as a ladybug. 

“Treats!” shouted most of the children. Ross grinned and dumped candy bars in their bags.

The zombie child hung back and looked at him skeptically.

“What kind of trick?” she asked as the other children trooped back down to the sidewalk.

“There’s a ghost in our house,” Ross said. “Sometimes it plays tricks.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” the zombie child scoffed.

Smith reached into the candy bowl and grabbed a Twix. His invisible hand held it directly in front of the girl’s face for a moment before he dropped it in the pillow case she carried.

“How do I know you didn’t do that?” she asked Ross, visibly unnerved.

“Because he didn’t,” Smith said in a low voice directly in her ear. “I did.” He dropped a second candy bar in her bag.

The zombie child shivered, and bolted down the steps.

“Happy Halloween!” Ross shouted. He grinned at the space beside the door where Smith crouched. “That was good.”

“Are you sure you want everyone to think your house is haunted?” Smith asked as he leaned back against the wall. 

“Just the kids,” Ross answered. “It’ll keep them from toilet papering our place. They’ll be too spooked.”

Another group of children charged up the path to the porch. At the sidewalk, the zombie child stood staring at the house. Down the street, children shrieked as someone in a remarkably believable werewolf costume answered the door with a growl and a bowl full of candy apples. Someone at the end of the block was having a party and the music drifted through the night.

In the living room, Trott sprawled on the couch eating cookies and watching an old black and white monster movie. He wore a skin tight spandex romper in army green. The shorts barely covered his ass, and Smith wondered if they could even technically be called shorts. There was a zipper up the front and flag patches on the long sleeves. Over the romper he wore a black body harness, the nylon straps tight on his thighs and his torso. A pair of shiny black high heeled boots lay on the floor.

“What are you dressed as?” Smith asked curiously, leaning over the back of the couch. He noticed Trott’s toenails were painted black.

“Sexy pilot, duh.” Trott looked up, his eyes ringed with black eyeliner and shimmery blue eyeshadow. The makeup made him look pretty and feral at the same time.

“Can you even wear underwear in that outfit?” Smith teased. 

“A thong, pervert,” Trott said with a smirk.

Smith rolled his eyes. “Do you guys always have matching costumes?”

“Ross loves this shit.” Trott stretched out and brushed crumbs off the couch. “Hopefully this house party won’t suck.”

The front door thumped closed and Ross cradled the candy bowl against his chest.

“I think the kids are mostly done,” Ross said. “Still have some candy though.” He tore open a mini Kitkat and crunched it noisily.

“What time do you want to leave?” Trott asked.

“Mmm, soonish?” Ross set the candy bowl on the table and jogged up the stairs to the bathroom. “I’m gonna fix my hair real quick.”

Smith drifted aimlessly around the room until he realized Trott was staring at him. 

“What?”

“Are you okay… you know, on your own? Tonight?”

“Yeah, fine.” Smith shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Ghosts, Halloween, all that?” Trott made a skeptical face. “Nothing weird is going to happen here? You aren’t going to open up a portal to hell or anything?”

“It’s totally fine.” At least Smith assumed so. He didn’t want to think about it not being fine, if he was honest.

“Ross just really wants us to go to this thing, because its all…” Trott paused. “It always feels a little weird to say werewolves. But there weren’t a lot in the city and there are here, so he’s happy to just be around people like him.”

“Are you gonna be okay, the only human in a room full of werewolves?” Smith laughed. “Not worried about becoming a snack?”

“Sure.” It was Trott’s turn to shrug. “It’s not totally unheard of. There might be some other people there. And we aren’t the only gay couple. I’m more worried about being bored. I’m used to going clubbing for Halloween.”

“We played a show, last Halloween,” Smith said. “Randy wore one of those inflatable dinosaur costumes. I can’t remember what I wore.”

Ross’ boots were loud on the stairs. “Ready, Trott?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Trott pulled on socks and his boots. Ross turned to look at Smith.

“You sure you’re fine on your own tonight?” he asked, his blue eyes concerned. “We won’t be out super late.”

“I can give out the candy if anyone else shows up,” Smith said. He made himself as vividly present as he could. To anyone ringing the door, he would look ordinary. Human. Alive. If someone asked, he could just say he was dressed as a rock star. 

“You don’t have to.” Ross reached out and squeezed Smith’s shoulder.

“I know. It’s kinda fun though.” 

Trott sat on the end of the couch. His heels tapped on the floor as he looked from Smith to Ross and back. He looked like he was about to say something but instead he looked down to fiddle with the straps of his costume.

“Go, go.” Smith shooed him away. There was a flurry of knocks on the door, the sound of giggling pre-teens. “I got this.”

Ross hugged him on his way out the door and Trott waved. Smith watched them leave, holding hands as they walked to the street. He left the porch lights on, and the flickering tea lights in the pumpkins. It was quieter now, the crowds of children gone. A group of teens on foot passed on their way somewhere. Smith unwrapped a chocolate bar. It was getting easier to manipulate small things, he didn’t have to think about it as much.

On a whim, he pulled the phone out of his jacket thinking he would look through the handbook to see if there was anything actually special about Halloween. There was a notification waiting, and Smith swiped it open.

_ Just checking in - hope you’re enjoying the holiday - no penalties for messing with the living tonight _

He held the phone for a moment and wondered what Sips was doing. Did he have to work every day? Did he live in that weird office and never leave? Or did he get to clock out and go somewhere? Smith decided to text him back.

_ Handing out candy to kids like the responsible adult I never was - have a good night? _

His phone buzzed after a few moments.

_ Those guys still letting you hang around? Must be that pretty face _

Smith snorted. 

_ We’re sorta becoming friends now _

_ Good, cause I have bad news - your hearing has been pushed back again - no new time yet _

_ Okay thanks for letting me know _

_ Have a good night Smiffy _

_ You too _

Smith put the phone back in his pocket. To his surprise he wasn’t upset about the hearing. He missed home, he hated being dead, it was still weird. But he was enjoying getting to know Trott and Ross, being a small part of their lives. He made coffee in the afternoons so it was ready when Trott got back from the lunch shift at the diner downtown. Smith tried not to smoke too much in the house. He still drew dicks in the steam on the bathroom mirror though largely to make Ross laugh. 

They were figuring out how to live together slowly. Trott seemed less hostile and Ross was as gregarious as ever. Smith gave them space, staying out of their bedroom now. He smoked on the porch, invisible to passing neighbors. The neighborhood cats seemed to notice him, hissing when they crossed the yard. Sometimes they sat and stared, tails twitching. None of them came near the porch though.

In the weeks since he had last been in the afterlife, he hadn’t seen or felt any other ghosts. He could almost believe he was the only one in the world. Sometimes he stood looking at the houses next door, half hoping to see another ghost peeking out. 

Smith wondered about Kim’s house, and her cat. Would it hiss at him? What about the alpacas next door? She’d talked once about getting chickens. Smith didn’t think chickens had enough brain to notice ghosts. 

Instead of spying on the bedroom, Smith spent time in the living room, or up in the attic where he could practice on Trott’s acoustic guitar. He didn’t mind the chill up there as autumn faded slowly towards winter. There were memories of songs he’d never quite gotten around to finishing, ideas he had. Sometimes he spent the entire night chasing chords and scribbling down lyrics. Smith didn’t know what he’d do with them but it was nice to spend long uninterrupted hours working on music. A couple times now, Trott had climbed up to him and read or dust the shelves. He at least didn’t seem to mind Smith’s playing, saying that ghostly music was preferable to ghostly footsteps. 

Ever since his kitchen confession, Ross had steadfastly embraced Smith. It was weird to think of him as a friend. Smith had learned more than he ever wanted to know about landscaping and park maintenance. It wasn’t bad though. He didn’t feel compelled to roll his eyes like he had when Randy went on about Buddhism or Kim talked about planting a garden. Smith hated to admit it, but he was becoming a better friend as a ghost.

Maybe if he was lucky, he would get to see them again.

Smith lit a cigarette and sat on the front steps. He could just see the moon coming up over the trees and jack o'lanterns flickered all around him. Life after death still sucked and the wait to find out what would happen was terrible. But it sucked a little less now. 


End file.
